


An Alchemical Prescription

by ImpOfPerversity



Series: Prescription-verse [1]
Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-11-28
Updated: 2005-04-27
Packaged: 2018-11-12 11:39:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 76
Words: 151,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11161110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity/pseuds/ImpOfPerversity
Summary: by Gloria and Tessabeth





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> by Gloria and Tessabeth

  
_No proper headers, because I'm writing this like I wrote my NaNoWriMo: thousand-word chunks, **one a day until the Desir'd Result is Achieved**.  
Dedicated to [](http://tessabeth.livejournal.com/profile)_[**tessabeth**](http://tessabeth.livejournal.com/), who knows the healing power of Shaftoe/Sparrow love.  


* * *

  
  
**An Alchemical Prescription: Prologue**   
Dunkirk, 1678

They were all pretty drunk on cheap French wine, and Jack wasn't the worst of them; so when he went out to piss he looked where he was going, and stopped when he heard voices ahead of him.

There were two men in the alleyway, speaking a language that reminded Jack of churches and was therefore probably Latin. It didn't take a clergyman to realise that they were arguing. Because it was dark, Jack could see very little of what was going on, but there was a glimmer of light from the half-open door that he'd just come through, and a shine of metal.

"Hey, now, none of that 'ere!" he said loudly, staggering forward, trying for an impersonation of Mr Foot, the proprietor of the Bomb and Grapnel. It was not a very good impersonation, but it was enough to make the man with the knife hesitate, and in that moment's hesitation his intended victim turned on him, disarmed him, and shoved him up against the mouldy wooden wall.

"Thank you for your timely intervention," said the winner over his shoulder to Jack.

"Glad to be of service," said Jack. "Now, if you'll excuse me ..."

Not wanting to turn his back on either of them, he conducted his (increasingly urgent) business at the other end of the alleyway, nearest the beach. That concluded, he turned to go back into the pub.

"I'm most grateful for that, Mr Shaftoe," said the tall man, leaning against the wall where he'd pinned his attacker (now fled) a minute before.

"How did you know my name?" demanded Jack.

"Your friends were free enough with it earlier," said the other, falling into step just behind Jack. That made Jack irritable, because it would be overreacting to turn around and run this fellow through just on the off-chance that he was up to something.

"And they told you, did they?"

They had reached the door of the inn. Jack squinted back over his shoulder as he spoke, not having had a good look at his companion yet. The man was tall, and well-built enough to subdue random attackers without much fuss; Jack saw now that he had a red beard, and grey hair tied back in a queue like Jack's own. There was a sword-hilt poking out through his cloak, but the alleyway did not afford space for sword-fighting, and Jack did not blame him for keeping it sheathed.

"Not at all," said the stranger, peaceably. "I happened to overhear it. As I overheard that fellow's advertisements of a cure for the French Pox."

Jack's feet stopped walking, and he stood with his hand on the door, gawping like a farmer. "A cure?" he managed at last.

"A _false_ cure," said his new friend sternly. "The process he describes would have little or no effect in the long term. It's men of his sort that give the art of Alchemy a bad name."

"You'd be an Alchemist, then?" Jack surmised.

"Yes -- and a more _honest_ one than the fellow who was arguing with me just now. My name is Enoch Root -- Enoch the Red, they call me in England."

"Jack Shaftoe," said Jack, bootlessly. "Won't you come and have a drink with us, Mr Root? Perhaps you could tell me and the boys about this cure."

"I have other business to attend," said Enoch, rather vaguely. "But, Jack, heed my words; if anyone in this town tells you that he can cure the Pox -- and yes, I see the marks of it on your skin, so I understand your interest in the matter -- then that man is a liar and not to be trusted. On no account should you part with any money for such a cure."

"I'll keep that in mind," said Jack, pushing the door open and heading for the bar. "Most kind of you to educate me so -- are you sure you won't have --"

But when he looked over his shoulder, Enoch Root had gone.

* * *

By midnight Jack was so drunk that the room seemed full of light, with two candle-flames for each one that'd been there earlier.

"Time to go, lads!" cried Jack, the natural leader of his little gang. After a brief dispute with Mr Foot regarding some forgotten items on the bill, they got themselves out into the street: six or seven young men, riotously cheerful and stinking variously of beer, rum, shit, gunpowder and gangrene.

This last -- a repugnant odour centred on Tom Flinch's left hand -- was the Reason behind their festivities. They all, even Tom, agreed that the afflicted member (his forefinger, bent back by a spent French cannonball that had miraculously missed everyone else on the _Henrietta Marie_ ) had to come off; "Quite puts me off me dinner," Mick had said, back on the ship, and poor Tom had been banished to take his meals on deck. Now, of course, he was reeling merrily, shaking his left hand at each of 'em in turn, and even _that_ had been enough to set Rob retching and spewing in the corner by the alleyway.

Jack had no very clear idea of where he was going, but somehow his feet led him through the mazy streets of Dunkirk to where a Barber-Surgeon's sign (a pole wrapped about with a bloody bandage) hung above a doorway. Jack hammered on this doorway, and nearly fell through it when a burly man flung it open.

"Ampu-pu-pu _ta_ tion," he achieved, with some effort, and waved a purse of money (just retrieved from Tom's pocket, not that Tom'd noticed) in front of the bloke.

"Certainly," said the man in accented English, looking Jack up and down. His gaze lingered on Jack's chin, where there was a chancre coming up again, and Jack scowled at him. "Follow me. Now, I'm sure that none of you fine gentlemen are afflicted," lied the barber-surgeon smoothly, leading them down a dark passageway into a room lit by firelight, "but I've lately learned a new and most effective cure for the Great Pox. If you know anyone who suffers from it, do pray send them here."

From somewhere in Jack's bleary memories -- addled enough by the Pox, without the additional blurring of strong drink that he'd been assiduously applying since noon -- came the sound of what's-his-name, chap in the alley, _Enoch_ , saying something about the cure not being terribly effective.

"Oh yes?" he said pleasantly. "How does that work, then?"

The barber fired off a few staccato orders to his assistant, who had been slumped in a chair by the fireside, and soon enough the room grew warmer as the assistant stoked the brazier and set some irons to heat in it.

"The treatment is in two parts," lectured the barber, and recounted a long and rambling tale that he claimed he'd had from a travelling alchemist. Jack didn't mind it too much, for it was a distraction from Tom's increasingly frantic protests as he was tied into the chair and held down by Mick and Joe, ready for surgery. Across the room, the assistant (a wall-eyed individual with a pronounced tremor) was pounding stenchful herbs in a mortar. Jack could distinguish them from the reek of Tom's finger, and surmised that they'd been chosen for their _odour_ as much as their _effect_.

After this there was a lot of screaming, and Jack began to feel unpleasantly sober. His yard began to ache -- not because he wanted a woman (though, Christ, that Mary Dolores ...) but because the barber's increasingly detailed explanation of the Pox-cure had reminded him of the chancre that had lately appeared _there_. Being cured would be a marvellous thing. Jack had seen men die of the French Pox, and had no desire to go crazy (or, at least, crazier) and end his days in agony. But the procedure being described, with its constituent hot irons, herbal poultices and _extreme pain_ , did not sound very much more pleasant: and besides, that Root bloke had been quite definite about its lack of efficacy.

So when they'd lugged Tom's unconscious body over to the fire and laid him on his side so that he wouldn't choke on his own vomit when he came round, Jack beckoned Mick closer.

"That Pox cure," he muttered. "It's a load of bollocks."

"Yeah, like you'd know," jeered Mick, prodding his own face in the approximate location of the most visible of Jack's sores.

"No, really," insisted Jack. "I met an Alchemist, and he told me it was all a lay."

"Oh aye?" said Mick. "Well, it don't sound too charming, I must say."

Frank and Joe were too far gone to listen to Jack, or possibly just did not believe him. The rest of them were treated to a second show: the barber and his assistant took first Frank, then Joe, and tied 'em up, gagged 'em, told 'em to point to each sore in turn, and then ... Well. Even Jack, who prided himself on a strong stomach, began to feel slightly sick, and Rob rushed outside to get rid of whatever was left in his stomach. The smell of roasting meat (Joe's inner thigh) and succulent herbs (being plastered all over the cauterisation) was enough to put Jack off the idea of finding supper at the cookshop over the road. And, as finale to the evening's theatricks, both the front door and the back suddenly burst open (Rob, green-faced, rushing back in with his hand over his mouth, gesturing frantically behind him) and the place was abruptly crowded with blokes in dark clothes, who turned out to be tax inspectors.

The barber dropped the iron; Joe screamed, or, rather, screamed more loudly; and the rushes on the floor, all sticky with blood, began to burn merrily.

"Tax inspectors?" Jack fumed later, when they were back at the Bomb and Grapnel and Mr Foot had broken open a restorative cask of brandy. " _Tax_ inspectors? At that time of night?"

"Lucky he'd finished doing Joe," said Mick pragmatically. They had bought some bread and cheese, and were dividing it amongst those of the party who were conscious and had some appetite: Jack and Mick, as it turned out.

"Lucky he weren't doing me," said Jack, shuddering at the thought of the long burn on Joe's leg. "Must be a better way of curing the Pox than going at it with red-hot irons."

"If you find one," said Mick, teasing out a maggot from the cheese, "let me know."


	2. Chapter 2

  
_see[Prologue](http://www.livejournal.com/community/impofperversity/22915.html) for Prescription and Patient._  
  
Jack Shaftoe had become accustomed, over the years, to encountering Enoch Root in the most improbable places. There'd been the time he'd bumped into Enoch (almost literally) in the catacombs of Lyons; the infamous Madrid Brothel Incident, for which he still owed Enoch a favour; a chance encounter in Rotterdam, where Jack had been overseeing the transportation of gunpowder; and, tonight, the revival of Ben Jonson's _Alchemist_ , a favourite from Jack's boyhood, at which he must've half-expected to see Enoch -- who, though not the only Alchemist of Jack's acquaintance, was the only one Jack could take seriously for five minutes at a time.

Jack, on whom Fortuna had lately smiled, had _paid_ for his seat, and for a bag of roast chestnuts which he was alternately eating and tossing at the stage. When the heavy hand fell on his shoulder, he was strangely unsurprised, and made only a half-hearted grab at his knife.

"Well," he said, twisting round, "come to see what lies they're peddling about you, eh, Enoch?"

Enoch shushed him, but he was smiling. He nudged Jack's shoulder until Jack grudgingly made room, and slid in beside him, ignoring the evil looks and mutterings of that part of the audience disturbed by their reunion.

"How's business?" said Jack, proffering chestnuts and keeping an eye on the play.

"Interesting as ever," said Enoch. "I hadn't expected to find you in London, Jack; don't you have family here?"

Jack rolled his eyes. "So _they_ claim."

Enoch chuckled. "So you've nothing to keep you here?"

"On the contrary, I ... Why'd you ask?" Jack amended hastily, unwilling to expose _every_ detail of family life (the malarial demise of the fair Mary Dolores; the screeching of teething infants; the burden of fatherhood, explicated and illustrated twice daily by Maeve Partry, spinster, and her various burly male relations) to Enoch Root and the other habitués of the theatre.

"I'm off to Guyana for a while," said Enoch Root.

"Guyana?" said Jack, gesturing at the stage. "They were just speaking of that, down there. (No, madam, I will _not_ be quiet: we are discussing Literary Matters.) Isn't that one of the places where the sun's rays strike straight upon the ground, and so engender gold?"

"No," said Enoch, amused, "but yet there's gold there. Now, Jack, a fine young man like yourself'd do well there; there's treasure for the taking. And I'd appreciate your company."

"Me?" said Jack suspiciously.

"Strong, " said Enoch. "Capable. Not altogether immune to education, yet refreshingly unsullied by constraints of piety, misinformation or politics. Brave enough to win a fortune; clever enough to keep it."

"You old flatterer," said Jack mildly, tossing aside the remains of his dinner. "When do we sail?"

* * *

The sailors on the _Dolphin_ had at first thought Enoch Root a harmless eccentric, albeit one with a great many books. Now, gathered round to watch his daily demonstrations of the Art, on the after-deck, they were starting to murmur other words. "Alchemist" was the least of 'em. Jack kept half an ear on their conversation, ready to alert Enoch if it turned nasty; but the sheer ennui of the voyage made him loath to put a damper on Enoch Root's experimentations, often (saving the usual run of shipboard accidents) the only entertainment in a tedious day.

"Now, Jack, what do you think'll happen if I throw metal on the fire?"

"It ain't hot enough to do any smelting," said Jack, eyeing the brazier critically. "All you'll do is heat the metal: probably not enough to work it, but --"

"No, no; what if I grind down the metal, thus, so it's all shavings and filings?"

Jack couldn't see why anyone would want to do that, but he held his tongue; it was one thing to display his ignorance when the two of them were alone, quite another to parade it in front of the _Dolphin_ 's unlettered, and easily impressed, crew. He thought about wood, and sawdust, which bore the same relation to wood as these filings did to the copper penny that Enoch'd been laboriously grinding against a notched iron file.

"It'll explode?" he hazarded at last.

"It will," said Enoch, winking; and Jack saw him surreptitiously add a pinch of dark, gritty powder to the glittery filings in his palm. Gunpowder! Jack sat back on his heels, ready for more entertainment as Enoch blew himself to kingdom come.

Enoch's experiment was at once more and less entertaining. Disappointingly, he did not sprinkle the powder directly from his hand onto the flames; rather, he rolled it up in a much-scribbled leaf of paper ("a religious tract," he explained to Jack, "but obviously anything will do; whatever's to hand") and spearing that on the tip of his knife, introduced it cautiously to the flame.

Jack Shaftoe had been around explosives for the greater part of his life, and had played many merry tricks on his elders and betters by means of gunpowder introduced into places where it should not be. He expected the explosion, and the noise; but he was hard-pressed to hide his astonishment at the vivid blue flames that leapt from the brazier and cast a ghastly light upon the variously mistrustful, terrified and disapproving faces of the _Dolphin's_ company.

"How --?"

"Copper, Jack," said Enoch Root. "Copper gives a blue (or, some say, a green) flame, when it is ground small enough to burn. Iron --"

But here came Captain Heath, puffing outrage, with plenty to say on the wickedness of Enoch's experiments. "Against God's laws!" he said, more than once, though Enoch (and, once he'd got the gist of it, Jack) tried to convince him that experimentation was a way of perceiving the wonders of God's creation, no more. The upshot of which was that Enoch Root and Jack Shaftoe were strongly encouraged to disembarque at the _Dolphin_ 's next port of call, which turned out to be on the south coast of the island of Jamaica.

Enoch, watching a pair of sailors unload (with much prayer and crossing of themselves) his luggage, was philosophical about their fate. "I can find a ship to take me the rest of the way," he said. "What of you, Jack?"

Jack shrugged. "I haven't made up my mind yet," he said. "What manner of place is this?"

"Port Royal? 'Tis the wickedest city on earth," said Enoch Root thoughtfully, looking around at the shuttered taverns, unconscious tavern-goers, empty bottles, ripped petticoats, pages torn from picaresque novels and playbills that littered the quayside. "Or so they say."

"Oh, _good_ ," said Jack Shaftoe.


	3. An Alchemical Prescription, 2

  
  
Sailing the _Black Pearl_ into the harbour at Port Royal would have been, at the very least, a taunt: asking for trouble. Slipping into Port Royal in a borrowed cutter, to pick up supplies and drop off letters and catch up with the latest fashions (as Captain Jack Sparrow, smug with subterfuge, liked to think of his ventures into various brothels and stews) was quite another matter. His lovely ship moored broodingly in a narrow cove to the west, Jack Sparrow sailed in one fine morning, paid his shilling ("Lieutenant John Byrd") and tied up at the quay.

"Jack!" he was greeted, before he'd got ten yards, by a tall figure in a long, grubby robe that put Jack in mind of ecclesiastical matters. He looked the man up and down, slowly and silently, frowning; though it became difficult to hold that frown when he recognised the strong features, the neat red beard, and the silver hair tied back in a queue.

"Enoch Root," said Jack Sparrow. "Well, I'll be damned."

"Aye, very likely," said Root, chuckling.

"You haven't changed at all, Mr Root," said Jack, his frown returning. "Now, _that's_ a clever trick: you must teach it to me some time."

"Actually, I was rather hoping --"

Jack's eyes fell to the sea-chest at Enoch's booted feet, and then rose again in a second examination. This time he noted that Enoch Root's knuckles were split; that there was a scorch-mark on the heavy cloth of his robe; that Enoch did not wear a sword. "You don't want to be wandering around Port Royal like that, Mr Root," he said.

"I don't want to be wandering around Port Royal at _all_ , Captain," said Enoch Root. "In fact, I was hoping you might be able to help me there."

"What d'you want?" returned Jack.

"Passage to Guyana," said Enoch Root.

Jack made an extravagant gesture. "You're not after that Fountain _again_?"

Root looked around nervously, as though the various slaves, stevedores, port and customs officials, layabouts and small boys -- in short, the resident population of any berthing-place throughout the Caribbean -- were likely to hang on his words.

"Not here, Captain," he said. "Allow me to buy you a drink."

So it was that Jack Sparrow, temporarily diverted from his errands, came to be sitting in one of the waterfront taverns, across from his father's old friend Enoch Root, who hadn't changed a bit --

"I mean it," said Jack, "about the not-changing. You look just the same as when I was a boy. _Just_ the same; same --"

"Shush," said Enoch, looking around. "I've no wish to be hauled up in front of the Governor for witchcraft, or whatever they call it here."

Jack laughed. "The Governor's got his hands full," he gestured fastidiously at the tavern's other customers, "with this lot. He's not going to care about one _alchemist_. Though I have to say, Enoch, that I think it more than a little foolhardy of you to be wandering around Port Royal on your onesies, without anyone to watch your back."

Enoch did not rise to the bait of Jack's considering gaze by turning to look behind him. "Well, Jack," he said, "I _did_ have a companion, come with me from London; charming gentleman, name of Shaftoe, I'm sure you'd get along."

"I don't see him," said Jack, raising his cup in a toast.

"Someone made him a better offer," said Enoch flatly. "I think he found the Art a disappointment."

"The Art?" said Jack, and then as Enoch grimaced and rolled his eyes, "oh, _that_ Art. You didn't offer to make him rich beyond his wildest dreams, eh?"

"There's more to the Art than wealth," said Enoch through gritted teeth. "Though Mr Shaftoe was not especially interested in its more _esoteric_ aspects."

"Gone off to seek his fortune, has he?" said Jack, nodding. "There's always some young blade thinks he's found a great treasure, or a new gold-mine, or a fool-proof scheme for assaulting the Spanish fleet. None of them come to much, of course, or we'd all be lounging around being fanned by houris, and ..."

"Yes, quite," said Enoch Root, clearing his throat. "So, Captain, suppose a man were seeking passage to Guyana, to the mouth of the Orinoco; would you happen to know a man who'd take him?"

"Does the man have gold to pay his passage?" retorted Jack, leaning forward.

"I'm confident of it," said Enoch Root, settling his boots more firmly on the awkward sea-chest that he'd hauled in with him.

"And he hasn't much luggage, eh?" said Jack, running lightning mental calculations to do with less rum, or less water, or, yes, less beer (the cutter not being especially spacious).

So it was that Enoch Root came to be sailing south on that notorious pirate ship, the _Black Pearl_ , and dining nightly with her infamous captain. Jack Sparrow remembered Enoch Root from his early childhood, before his father had gone off on that final voyage. Root offered his condolences, but no other observation.

"Surely you know where he was headed?" probed Jack one night, after too much rum. "You came to visit us a month or so before he sailed. I remember that." Jack Sparrow was never one to hold any man in awe, and Enoch Root had exerted himself to be friendly with the _Black Pearl_ 's company; Jack spoke to him now, not as his father's friend, but as his own.

"I came to try to dissuade him from a wild goose chase," said Enoch. "He had a new map, and he swore it was Ralegh's: he was talking about some Aztec treasure trove, hidden away on a little island near St Lucia."

"There's a hundred little --"

"My point exactly," said Enoch Root. "And no Aztec treasure on any of 'em, Captain Sparrow: otherwise, don't you think that someone would have found it by now?"

Jack shrugged. "Depends on how well it was hidden."

"Well," said Root dismissively, tipping his head back to neck the last of his rum, "there's at least two ships heading that way now. If they find anything, I'm sure you'll hear of it. _My_ business, though, lies upriver, and I trust you'll fulfil our bargain before you go haring off."


	4. An Alchemical Prescription, 3

  
Jack Shaftoe did not often regret abandoning Enoch Root, back in Port Royal. Port Royal! The wickedest city on Earth! (Though Jack had seen wickeder, and had said so, at some length and at a volume that had resulted in their ejection from the nicer -- or less noxious -- sort of tavern.) Even _Enoch_ (who, though he dressed like a monk, did not live like one) could find entertainment in a city like Port Royal.

And Enoch'd been adamant about heading for Guyana.

"Even though it's full of poisonous snakes, poisonous Indians and uncharted swamps?" Jack had asked.

"So's _Essex_ , Jack, if we read 'natives' for 'Indians'. And those things you mention are some of the reasons why Guyana has yielded up her treasure only reluctantly."

"But there's treasure aplenty all over the Caribbean!" Jack had argued, gesturing around at the tavern's other customers: all bedecked in fine clothes, they were, with gold gee-gaws hanging from various parts of their anatomies, calling for good wine by the bottle. "Treasure for the taking!"

"That's merely _wealth_ ," said Enoch Root. "The treasure I seek is of quite another sort."

"Oh yes," said Jack, "silly me. The sort that _can't be found_. That _doesn't exist_ \-- save in those mouldy books we've been lugging around Port Royal all week."

"We might have found lodgings at the Rose, if you'd not --"

"Ah, she was probably on the rag," said Jack airily. "Perhaps they've a room here." For himself he could not see the _point_ of renting lodgings, not when there were friendly girls (few enough, but fewer of 'em immune to the infamous Shaftoe charm) for company, but he supposed Enoch needed somewhere to keep his staggering array of possessions. And Enoch seemed to have enough money to cover their daily expenses, though Jack had never seen him _make_ any.

A fellow at a nearby table had been eyeing Enoch suspiciously, so much so that Jack'd loosened his sword in its scabbard. But then the man -- a swarthy-skinned type -- had come over to their table, and addressed Enoch in good Latin (or so Jack surmised) and started up a long and tedious conversation that Jack could not understand.

He'd been about to make his excuses and leave when the man had turned to him, introduced himself ("Don Esteban de Espinosa") and spoke to Jack in execrable, but nevertheless comprehensible, English: "We are making a voyage to dig up Spanish treasure. Your friend here is wise, and we seek wisdom to guide us."

"Too wise to be of use to you, I'll wager!" said Jack, and other witticisms in the same vein: but Enoch, drawing him aside, adumbrated that the voyage was more than just the usual fool's quest, and that Jack -- were he restless and eager for action, wealth and so on -- might do worse than sail with Don Esteban.

"You've grown weary of my company, you mean," sulked Jack.

"Not at all, not at all," said Enoch genially. "But I'm bound for Guyana, and you've made your views on _that_ quite evident: so, unless you intend to stay in Port Royal until your money runs out, you'll surely be wanting another _venture_."

Staying in Port Royal until his money ran out had indeed been high on Jack's mental list of ways to pass the time, but this would no doubt seem feckless to one such as Enoch.

And so it was that Jack Shaftoe came to be standing on the deck of the _Santa Ana_ , his possessions ( _mostly_ his possessions) in an oilskin bag at his feet, yelling at Don Esteban -- yelling in _duplicate_ , because the Spaniard turned out to be three-quarters deaf, as well as deficient in the English language.

"You brought me aboard this ship under false pretences! _False pretences!_ " Jack's throat was beginning to hurt, but the alternative was ever so much worse. "If you'd made your, your _invitation_ , before we left Port Royal, I'd never've stepped on this vessel!"

Jack paused for breath, and to glare at the Second Mate, who had just said something amusing in Spanish. From his expression, Jack thought it might have been an observation to the effect that the blond Englishman was pretty when angry.

"So just set me ashore, sir -- here, there, _any one_ of these little islands will suit me perfectly -- as long as it's not infested, like this _verminaceous tub_ , with randy buccaneers!"

That'd done it. Insulting the captain was one matter; insulting his vessel, quite another. In short order, Jack found himself manhandled into the jolly-boat with the oilskin bag in his lap, rowed ashore (or nearly ashore: they heaved him out into the surf, and his stuff after him, but the water was no more than thigh-deep) and abandoned, _marooned_ , with the men in the jolly-boat rowing hard against the waves away from him. Jack thought of changing his mind; then thought again, as one of the oarsmen paused in his labours to yell back a remark concerning Jack's arse, and the likelihood of the _Santa Ana_ swinging this way again.

Charming, thought Jack. He turned his back on the whole infernal crew -- unfair to damn 'em all, he'd been on easy terms with most of the men -- and set off to explore his new domain.

This did not take long.

There was, by some happy chance, a brackish spring. Jack Shaftoe was not in the habit of prayer, but he muttered some thanks to any deity who might be listening. Without water, he'd have been doomed; there were other islands poking out of the horizon, and perhaps _they'd_ have water, but the ocean hereabouts harboured any number of voracious fishes, and Jack did not fancy the swim.

But he had water; there were fish that Jack might _eat_ , as opposed to being eaten by, in the sea; and he had come away from the _Santa Ana_ with a few of the necessities of life (goat jerky, tinderbox, gunpowder, dry clothes), preserved from the surf by their oilskin covering.

Jack picked a patch of beach more or less at random and set up his camp. He scoured the little island for driftwood and palm-leaves (there was a palm-tree too, but Jack eyed the tall trunk and decided to wait for the nuts to fall) and built a fire. The sun was going down, spectacularly, across the empty ocean. Jack sat and watched it for a while, devoid of other entertainment.

With a quiver of irritation, he realised that he missed Enoch Root.


	5. An Alchemical Prescription, 4

  
  
Once, becalmed off Brazil, Jack Sparrow had tried to enumerate those little islands, reefs and shoals that clustered so thickly across even the largest chart of the Caribbean. He had, he thought, been somewhere in the low thousands before the wind began to rise; at which realisation he'd leapt up, letting the chart refurl itself abruptly as though rolled by invisible hands, and rushed out onto the deck.

"All hands!"

All hands had gathered themselves, with remarkable rapidity, from shady corners in the open air and nasty dark nooks below decks, and got the _Black Pearl_ under sail again, setting a course for whichever far-flung port they'd been headed for before the wind had dropped.

Any captain worth his salt knew what to watch for; the greenish cast to the water where shoals lurked close to the surface, the distant mirage of close-clustered trees, the far white shine (and rumbling thunder) of surf on a beach. Half of these islands were islands only at low tide, but a threat to his lovely ship even once awash.

And there were other hazards. Sharks basked in the warm shallows between the sand-bars, and a man who eagerly scrambled out of the jolly-boat before it ran its prow into the sand might find himself suddenly footless, or thrashing about in white water with a million teeth driving through his skin. (Good eating on a shark, though, if it was baked for long enough.) Trees, as Jack Sparrow knew to his cost, did not necessarily advertise the presence of fresh water, and without it an unlucky man would last no more than a day or two. And there were unlucky men aplenty in the Caribbean; last month there'd been that madman raving on his little spit of sand, who'd supped sea-water and kept himself half-alive. Jack had ordered him brought aboard (keeping well clear in case he ended up with a black eye to match Cotton's) but he'd died in the night, too stiff with salt to keep down fresh water.

Now Jack Sparrow, _Captain_ Jack Sparrow, had never been one for marooning; it seemed more humane, and just as efficacious, to kick any miscreant off his ship when they reached the nearest port. Other pirate captains, though, were less indulgent, and some months it seemed that every tiny isle, rock or reef was home and kingdom to a pirate or two -- their plight a signal of their likely nature, to wit argumentative, awkward and choleric, often with a dash of mutineering tendencies as well. Some of them lit fires when the _Black Pearl_ appeared on their eagerly-examined horizon; some of them made smoke signals; some, more adventurous, climbed trees, or waved flags, or (if dusk were drawing in) fired pistols or signal-rockets.

They'd had a good sail back from the Orinoco; fine southerly winds, clear skies and nothing but the distant grumble of a storm to alarm them. At this rate they'd be back in Port Royal by the end of the week. Enoch Root's gold was practically burning a hole in Jack's pocket: he had all manner of plans for his share.

But no point in hurrying and risking his ship in the deceptive dusk: so, as the sun began to set, Jack called to Gibbs, "We'll drop anchor to the east of that little islet, up there."

The sweep of islets interrupted the surface of the sea like the knobs of some sea-monster's spine; none of them rose more than a few feet above the waves, but most boasted shrubbery, and a couple (Jack remembered) had fresh water. Not that the _Pearl_ needed any at the moment, having made so fine a run; but it was a useful thing to know.

"Cap'n," said Gibbs, "there's smoke up ahead."

Jack sighed theatrically. "So much for peace and quiet, eh?" He glanced west at where the sun had set, trying to work out whether the twilight would last long enough for them to make port at one of the larger islands instead.

"Cap'n," said Gibbs uneasily; then, "Jack! Look!"

Oh, the deep glowing blue of the Caribbean dusk, pierced already by audacious planets; oh, the midnight glimmer of the ocean, rising and falling gently. And oooh! (Jack was not the only man on board the _Black Pearl_ who exclaimed aloud.) The emerald arc of glittering sparks across that gentle sky! And a crash, as of thunder close by, though the heavens were cloudless.

None of them had ever seen such a thing before. Gibbs darkly muttered something about Enoch Root and his box of tricks, but Stone shushed him. "Old Enoch's off with the Indians now, mate!"

"Let's go and have a look," said Jack Sparrow.

* * *

Jack Shaftoe cursed the chill night breeze, and the way it crept inside his shirt, which was rather more ragged and holed than before. Gunpowder was always a chancy thing, and he'd the feeling that he'd ground the stuff _too_ fine. Not that there'd been much else to do, sitting here all afternoon feeling his brains dry up in his skull as the sun beat down on him, except mill gunpowder between two smooth flat stones.

Jack had observed before (indeed, had been lucky to survive the observation) that fine powder burnt more quickly than coarse. It had taken Enoch Root to suggest a practical -- albeit not terribly _useful_ \-- application for that knowledge, viz. the manufacture of fireworks. Jack Shaftoe, as evinced by the array of more or less healed burns on his skin, was becoming quite skilled at this. The introduction of copper (ground down from some loose change) had been a spectacular success, if Jack did say so himself; though that particular Rocket had gone off, so to speak, half-cocked, before Jack could get as out of the way as he'd intended.

No matter. Burns healed quickly enough. More importantly, it'd _worked_. That last ship (yesterday? No, two days ago) had sailed on by, despite Jack's blazing fire and his antics before it. But there was a fine great ship out there, and her head was turning: she was coming for him.

The fire was burning low, and Jack was cold. What the hell, eh? He flung the last of the firewood (and a few discarded rocket-tubes) onto the embers and they blazed up brightly. 'Twas the work of a moment to gather together what was left of his possessions. Then Jack arranged himself so as to appear friendly and harmless (though his pistol was to hand) and settled down, with the final strip of jerked goat-meat, to await his rescuers.


	6. An Alchemical Prescription, 5

  


Approaching, as he was, from the dark flat canvas of sea and sky, and heading t’ward a bright sparking fire—and, what’s more, being armed with a glass—Jack Sparrow had a far better view of whoever was on the beach than that poor marooned soul had in return. Could see, in fact, how that firelit other held a hand to his eyes, blocking the brightness of the flame beside him, and squinted into the darkness, wondering no doubt what manner of men came now to his supposed rescue.

That was the problem, once a fellow got himself in this position; he was quite entirely at the mercy of whoever might turn up, and would have to ingratiate himself rapidly if he was to avoid being brought aboard as slave (or worse); or even (Jack had known it to happen, though had never indulged in such barbarity himself) not being brought aboard at all, but instead being used as a human quarry, entertainment for bored savages, or the savagely bored. So this one was relatively lucky.

By the looks of him in the small, darting image that Jack’s glass presented as they broached the surfline, he was still in pretty good nick. He couldn’t have gone mad with the sun, or lack of water, or he wouldn’t’ve managed to perform whatever that pretty trick was that had attracted their attention in the first place. But he’d been here more than a day or two; his clothes were filthy and ragged, skin sundark against pale, sun-bleached hair. He stood as they drew nearer, and splashed into the shallows in a manner that Jack wouldn’t’ve recommended (not in the dark, not in a sea that harboured sharp corals, stinging rays, basking sharks) and Jim Cooper muttered, “He ain’t been round here long.”

“Last guess, boys,” muttered Jack, low so the stranger wouldn’t hear him above the waves. “Bottle of that Spanish for whoever gets it right.”

“Sticking with incitement,” said Cooper.

“Firestarter,” was Burton’s guess: “That’s a cove who likes blowing things up.”

“Killed someone, I’d lay,” said Martingale, with relish, and Jack could see why; the stranger’s face bore a smile, but beneath the deliberately non-threatening mask was a strong, hard face, sitting above a fighter’s body.

“What’re you going with, Jack?”

Jack squinted once more through his glass, close enough now to see a burn on the stranger’s cheek. A strong and hard face, aye, that; but a handsome face too, with a wide curving mouth and straight dark brows. Jack swept his spyglass over the rest of the body, narrow hips and long legs, and it came to him; he laughed shortly, and said, “You’re all wrong; some sailor took a fancy to ‘im, and he didn’t return the sentiment.”

“Told you he ain’t been round here long,” said Cooper, and he and Burton exchanged sly grins.

The stranger raised a hand in greeting, and called, “ _Obliged_ don’t really cover it, gentlemen; I’m most enormously pleased to make your acquaintance.”

The boat scraped against sand, and Jack stood and climbed out, not bothering to lay a hand on his sword or pistol; Martingale would have him covered. “Captain Jack Sparrow, of the _Black Pearl_ , at your service,” he said, with a brief touch of fingers to his tricorne. “And you, sir, are… ?”

“Jack Shaftoe, of nowhere in particular; and, as I mentioned, bloody happy to see you,” said the stranger, and he beamed, and his smile brought a wicked one to Jack’s own face, for it made him more certain than ever of his hypothesis; Jack Shaftoe’s smile crinkled up his eyes, and caused a dimple high on one brown cheekbone, and showed an enviable set of teeth, with one crooked canine that gave him a subtly ferocious air. But then another thought sprung out at him, and he mouthed _Shaftoe, Shaftoe, Shaf—_ for a moment before remembering where he’d heard it; and all of a sudden that bright emerald sparkle made sense to him.

“Jack Shaftoe, late of London Town?” Jack enquired genially, head on one side.

Shaftoe’s smile remained fixed ‘pon his lips, but left his eyes, and he said, “Aye, as it happens; are you merely a lucky guesser, Captain, or have we encountered one another prior?”

“Oh,” said Jack, airily, “I’m dead lucky, me; and you’d be surprised what I already know about you, Mr Shaftoe.”

***

For the life of him, Jack couldn’t recall having chanced upon this fellow before, and if he had, and now did not remember it, he must’ve been inebriated to a level that many wouldn’t survive, because he surely wouldn’t’ve simply _forgotten_ a creature like this.

Jack was, by all means, grateful to Lady Fate for having brought him deliverance (though she was fairly reliable that way, in his experience, which took the edge off his gratitude rather) but, for the love of God, could she not have come up with a rescuer who looked just a little less likely to repeat the incident that had brought him to this pass in the first place? For Captain Jack Sparrow seemed to’ve made a great effort of design in his person; from the layered flamboyance of his clothing, to the rings upon his hands, to the gew-gaws knotted into his hair and beard, to the lines of black around his eyes; and the natural inference of this design, to Jack’s mind (particularly in light of his Caribbean Encounters to date) was that the good Captain was comfortably… _flexible_ in his dealings with his fellow man.

It was an entirely ridiculous get-up, and Jack considered the man bloody lucky to’ve been blessed with a face and carriage that, somehow, allowed him to get away with it. And now; now, this lunatick dandy appeared to think he had some knowledge of Jack! What, was he in cahoots with Espinosa? A fleeting paranoia whistled through Jack. He clenched his arse, to feel the reassuring dig of his pistol where it was tucked in the back of his breeches, and briefly considered the likelihood of another ship passing this way within the next week; beyond that, he didn’t think he’d be in much state to be rescued anyway; but it was a brief consideration only. There was a perfectly good ship out there! With food! And grog! Alright, so her Captain was an odd soul; but Jack could handle himself, couldn’t he?

So Jack merely raised his eyebrows at Jack Sparrow’s assertion of familiarity, and said, “I’m delighted to hear that I’m so widely known; I’m sure my old ma would be very proud. P’rhaps… we could discuss me on the way back to your charming vessel?”

Someone in the jolly-boat chuckled, and Sparrow said, “Why, mate, are you so very interesting, are you?”

“I’ve had the odd escapade,” said Jack, with a cocky grin.

“I’m sure you have, and will entertain us with ‘em at length; but would you mind enlightening us, first, as to what manner of _escapade_ it was that landed you here, all alone, flagging down passing mariners with pretty lights?” Sparrow enquired, and Jack caught a gleam of teeth as the men in the boat grinned at the question.

Jack considered coming up with some creative answer, but on balance, it was probably best to lay his cards on the table, as it were, and tell the truth; so he declared, “I chose to be put ashore, it wasn’t pressed upon me; I chose it in preference to playing catamite to the captain”; and he fixed Jack Sparrow with a steely gaze.

“Ah, fuck,” muttered someone in the boat, and Jack flushed to think that (Jesus!) after only minutes they already seemed to think it of him. But Sparrow didn’t seem at all put out, in fact, he was grinning more widely than ever, and Jack saw a flash of flame reflected in gold; even the man’s mouth was ornamented.

“Come along, then, Mr Shaftoe,” said the captain. “Though, before you come aboard, I should warn you of two things; firstly, that we are, shall we say, sailing on the wrong side of the law.”

“I’m familiar with that territory,” declared Jack, perversely delighted at this news.

“Excellent,” said Sparrow, and with a rather wolfish gleam in his eye, added, “And the second point is this; that there are a number of men in my company who will and do, as you so charmingly put it, _play catamite_ ; and I’ll not have them suffer for it, you hear me? You’ll not be bothered by ‘em, and you’ll not bother in return, or you’ll be back over the side regardless of whether there’s any spit of land nearby.”

“Fair enough,” said Jack, who’d no wish to bother anyone on his own account; and he followed Jack Sparrow into the _Black Pearl_ ’s jolly-boat.


	7. An Alchemical Prescription, 6

  
  
Jammed up tight against Mr Jack Shaftoe's lean, muscular form (for the jolly-boat was small and cosy, with five of 'em in it) Jack Sparrow could feel the heat of the other man's skin; could smell him, too, a distinctive and not unpleasant commingling of musky sweat, charcoal, salt and something curiously sweet.

Jack, curious to a fault, breathed in, and caught Burton grinning at him; caught, too, the way that Shaftoe's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"What ship were you on, Mr Shaftoe, and where bound?" asked Jack, bracing himself one-handed against the thwart as the boat tilted precariously.

"The _Santa Ana_ ," said Shaftoe, "Captain Espinosa: who had it in his head that there was a hoard of Spanish gold 'pon one of these little islands."

"I take it you made an extensive search?" enquired Jack, waving at the white beach receding behind them.

"Not a stone left unturned," affirmed Shaftoe, not bothering to take a final look over his shoulder at his former abode. "And never a scrap of silver or gold, though to tell you the truth I'd've settled for edibles."

"So what _do_ you bring us, Mr Shaftoe?" enquired Jack silkily. "Aside, that is, from your entertaining gift of making things explode Artistic'ly?"

"I'm good with a sword," said Shaftoe promptly. "Diverse experience of firearms, incendiaries, grenadoes and the like." His smile glimmered in the darkness. "Extensive knowledge of fortifications and siege warfare, but I don't s'pose there's much call for that, 'round here."

"You'd be surprised, Mr Shaftoe," Jack said. Was it time to mention Enoch Root, and what he'd said (little enough, but Jack could embellish it) about Mr Shaftoe? Perhaps not quite yet: much more entertaining, after all, to keep him in suspense. Jack drummed his fingers on his knee and bestowed a brilliant smile on Jack Shaftoe, who made a visible effort not to scowl back at him.

They were past the reef now, nearing the _Pearl_ , and Burton and Cooper were pulling strongly: in a couple more minutes they'd be up on deck. Already a row of faces, illumined by the yard-arm lanthorns, lined the rail, keen for a look at this stranger with his impressive (and yet not entirely trustworthy) new signalling techniques. Jack glanced at Shaftoe, who was gazing back alertly at them all: Jack could feel the tension in him, but there was no sign of it on his face, only that cocky grin.

"Clap on!" cried Martingale in the bow, and chucked the painter up to where it was caught by ready hands.

"Last chance, Mr Shaftoe," said Jack Sparrow as Martingale fairly sprang up the hull ahead of them. "If there's anyone up there who you've some quarrel with, or if you can't stand the sight of Tall Pete's face -- aye, him with the eye -- or Bootstrap's shirts, or if you're prone to pickiness at the dinner table; any of that, well, then we'll drop you back on your little island, there. Just say the word, mate."

"On the contrary," said Jack Shaftoe, getting to his feet and lunging for a handhold on the _Pearl_ 's black hull. "I'm most grateful for your hospitality, Captain, and I'll endeavour to make it worth your while."

* * *

Jack Shaftoe knew exactly what his dear old ma would've said about this Captain Sparrow. A caution, she'd've called him; and Jack was inclined to agree. Sparrow was clearly trying to provoke him, and Jack simply couldn't rise to it, not yet; not until he'd a decent meal in his grumbling stomach, some clean (or at least less utterly filthy) clothes on him, and a prospect of ending up in some civilised port where he might acquire more of the same.

So he didn't flinch when Sparrow pressed up against him in the jolly-boat (though there was plenty of room for both of 'em on the bench) and he didn't scowl back at Sparrow -- hah, a painted popinjay more like -- when Sparrow leered at him. But oh, cruel Fate, to deliver him into the hands of such a very _extravagant_ pirate!

The rest of 'em looked unexceptional; unexceptional for the crew of a pirate ship, at any rate, though that gave plenty of leeway for unorthodox attire, a surgeon's compendium of missing or grotesquely damaged body parts, and as varied an array of tattoos, ear-bobs, weaponry, elective dentistry and hairdos as Jack'd seen since his last excursion to Southwark Fair.

He faltered for a moment, setting foot on the black-stained deck, because they were all looking at him, and he'd been alone for too long to feel comfortable with that; but only for a moment, and then he was stepping forward, oilskin bag shoved back over his shoulder, saying, "Jack Shaftoe, London-born; pleased to meet you all."

There was a confused rush of names and faces, which Jack let wash over him. He'd untangle them later, if he stayed past the next port; by no means a certainty, what with the carefree ease with which Captain Sparrow flung an arm over Shaftoe's shoulders (or at least as far over as he could reach), and the way that Sparrow smirked as he declaimed theatrickally about having pluck'd this Caliban -- Jack rolled his eyes at the appellation -- from a solitary fate.

"And I know you'll all make him welcome, gents," cried Sparrow, beaming. "But not _too_ welcome, eh? He's been on the _Santa Ana_ , that Spanish barky some of you might recall from Trinidad last year; he's had enough of _that_ sort of thing."

For a moment Jack feared he might be blushing, which was hardly likely to help his situation. But none of the surrounding mob looked especially mocking, or put out, or even surprised; he supposed it must be an occupational hazard, with so many young fit blokes cooped up together for weeks on end. Perhaps, after all, solid land was a better place to be, if you were fussy about your bedmates. And Jack Shaftoe, even after some weeks on a desert island, was nothing if not fussy.

"I'm grateful to you all for the welcome," he said, making them a bow -- less from courtesy than from a desire to slide out from Sparrow's comradely embrace. "And I reckon you'll be better company than that tub of mad Spaniards." Oh good, a murmur of agreement; no Spanish on board, then. "And I'll wager your food's better, too!"

This worked exactly as Jack had hoped, and in short order he was sitting cross-legged on the deck, shovelling some sort of spicy chicken stew down his throat so fast that he could hardly taste it. Six or seven of the men were gathered round, pestering him with questions: green fire, how achieved; island, any redeeming features; _Santa Ana_ , purpose of voyage; Jack, his ancestry and affiliation; Port Royal, preferred taverns; _Santa Ana_ , typical menus. To some of these questions Jack responded succinctly between mouthfuls; others he kept guessing. He fancied himself like that Arabian lass in the play, rationing out her stories to keep her audience rapt. All _Jack_ need do was keep 'em entertained; keep 'em listening, interested, curious until the next port. And then he'd be away.


	8. An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter 7

  


There were any number of perfectly good reasons for the extreme buoyancy of Jack’s spirits (said reasons including rescue, a full belly, a delightful welcome, and a quantity of Captain Sparrow’s rather fine rum) and consequently his reluctance to be abed; he had quite adjusted to being back in the bosom of his fellow man, and these were exactly the sort of fellows with whom he would, in the normal course of events, choose to spend his time, viz. almost entirely without scruple, but blessed with an abundance of stories, laughter, and hard liquor, and most willing to share this cornucopia with the newcomer. So midnight had come and gone, and Jack, and a hard core of fellow revellers, were still to be found in the waist of the ship, sitting about a lanthorn and telling stories whose embellishment became more barock with every new bottle that made its way up from the hold. Although he did note that he and his companions were far from alone: a surprising number of the company chose to sleep abovedecks, and trips below seemed to be undertaken rapidly, and with no great enthusiasm. No one, for example, had offered to show him to a hammock. Which was another perfectly good reason for sitting up here and drinking.

Jack Sparrow had been at the helm for First Watch, and given it over to Tall Pete at midnight; now he sat across from Jack, cross-legged on the black boards, making up for lost drinking time. He was not the most aloof of Captains, that much was clear. In lantern-light, he seemed to glimmer, then fade away into darkness, and Jack’s mazy eyes were drawn to him, again and again; how was it that a man such as this, so extravagant, so odd, and clearly no martinet, could command the respect of a shipful of hardened buccaneers? ‘Twas a certain mystery, and not one that Jack was capable of solving right at the moment.

Sparrow’s black eyes flicked suddenly to Jack, and he was caught staring; he looked away as rapidly as he could, but not fast enough that Sparrow did not note that he was being watched, and grin at it. Jack tried to tune in to the finale of Bill Turner’s tale, and took another swig of rum to hide his discomfort.

“But when it came time to divvy, the bastards had filled that chest with stones, and only a two-inch layer of gold upon the top; and gentlemen, you should’ve heard the words that came from that man’s mouth—” (here he pointed at his captain) “—his mother would’ve died of shame!”

“My mother would die of shame if she knew half the things that’ve been in and out of my mouth,” said Jack Sparrow with an exaggeratedly wicked leer, and something hot flushed over Jack, but he tried to join in the wave of drunken laughter.

“Ah, sorry Mr Shaftoe,” said Sparrow, pointing him out despite his effort to blend in, “I know you’re not one for that kind of talk.”

“I’m no blushing maid,” said Jack, accompanying the statement with a rather rude gesture, considering it was aimed at the captain of the vessel that had only today rescued him from a reasonably certain death.

“Didn’t think for a moment that you were,” said Sparrow, mildly; “Quite the reverse… _obviously_.” This last accompanied by an appraising glance, that brought on more laughter, till Burton (who was already developing a certain affection for the new recruit) said, “Thought you said we weren’t to bother ‘im, Jack, in’t you breakin’ yer own rule?”

“Captain’s prerogative,” said Jack Sparrow, and felt mighty pleased with himself for getting that word out without a stammer. Jack determined to change the subject, before further elucidation on the Captain’s prerogatives came about.

“So, gentlemen, no one’s enlightened me yet as to where we’re actually headed, or indeed why; not that I’m fussy, as long as our destination ain’t another sandbar, but I’m surely curious.”

“Port Royal,” said Bootstrap.

Jack’s face must’ve told the story, for Jack Sparrow narrowed his eyes, and enquired, “That answer not to your liking then, Mr Shaftoe? Got some reason for avoiding the place, have we?”

“Not at all,” said Jack. “It’s just the only part of the Caribbean that I’ve already seen; and there ain’t that much to see there, as it happens.”

“Maybe you’re just looking in the wrong places.”

“Oh, I looked in a few places,” said Jack, with a leer of his own. “But there’s a certain disappointment to coming aboard a fine pirate vessel and being taken right back to a _tradesman’s_ town.”

“Maybe we’ve items to trade,” said Sparrow, and then added, “Maybe we’ll trade _you_.” There was an unreadable light in his eyes that made Jack a little nervous.

“Suspect I’m worth more in person,” he claimed.

Bootstrap clapped him on the back, and insisted, “Ignore him, Jack, he’s winding you up… sure, you’re a fine entertaining fellow, and we’re pleased to have you aboard, ain’t we, lads?”

There was a drunken chorus of agreement, which pleased Jack no end (he’d been pretty certain he had them with the Madrid Brothel story, but it was good to get confirmation) and he toasted them in return, and, filled with joie de vivre and comradeship after weeks alone (not to mention feeling a certain pressure to be amusing) he cried, “Here you go then, gents, look at this!” He plucked the candle from the lantern, took a mouthful of rum, tilted his head back, and performed one of the fire blowing tricks that he and Bob had perfected for the amusement of Marlborough’s men, several years back, in their role as company mascots.

It was an impressive trick, and gave a devilishly dangerous appearance, shooting flame several feet high and yet (when performed correctly) not setting a fellow alight, and Jack was used to eliciting awe with it; but he wasn’t quite prepared for the reaction that he got from Jack Sparrow and his men.

*

Shaftoe was a card, that much was clear, and had a great knack of making friends; and what’s more, he gave every sign of being a useful fellow in a tight corner, came with Enoch Root’s commendation, and was particularly pleasing to the eye. And as if that weren’t enough to recommend him to Jack, he was also delightfully easy to tease. So Jack had been feeling particularly well-disposed towards him, until, out of nowhere, he was suddenly spouting a yard of flame from his mouth.

Which would be a reasonably foolish trick on a ship at the best of times, but this, on the _Pearl_ , was not the best of times. Jack was frozen for a second, they all were, even the blue flames that illuminated Jack Shaftoe’s upturned face seemed to hold themselves there, dancing in the blackness; and then Bootstrap had grabbed and snuffed the candle, and Jack had launched himself across the circle of men, and he wasn’t the only one to do it, though he was the fastest, and turned himself into a human snuffer, pushing Jack Shaftoe down on the deck and landing solidly on top of him, and at least two more landed on Jack.

There was a moment’s silence before a muffled voice from below him said, “Honestly, lads, it’s not that dangerous, I can teach it to you if you like. But you’ll have to get off me.”

The men on top of Jack climbed off, to his relief (Burton was a big lad) and he lay still for a moment, his forehead to the deck; Jack Shaftoe’s head was under his chest. He could have rolled off, but this was an important message, and Shaftoe had to understand it; so instead, Jack wriggled backwards down the body below him, till he was face to face (thereby annoying the crap out of Mr Jack Shaftoe, and gaining his full attention, as intended).

“I should perhaps have mentioned to you,” said Jack, trying to ignore the irritated writhing below him, “that we are carrying certain… highly flammable items.”

Jack Shaftoe scowled. “It’s a _ship_ , it’s made of _wood_ , it carries _gunpowder_ ; I’m not an idiot, captain, I’m not likely to risk all our lives by setting light to any of those things.”

“None of those things are my concern,” said Jack darkly. “We’re carrying other substances; substances which give off what you might call _etheric effluvia_ , also known as a particularly bad smell, and some contend that the ether itself is flammable; at any rate, the substance most certainly is not only _flammable_ but highly _explosive_ , and naked flames are not welcomed on board this vessel at the present time. Although, if it had not been the case, I’m sure we would all have been highly amused by your Trick.”

Shaftoe appeared a little mollified by this last assurance, and seemed to have stopped wriggling. Which surprised Jack rather, but certainly wasn’t… unenjoyable. Jack had a terrible yen for the unattainable. He made a heroic effort to focus on the matter in hand.

“Hence,” he continued, “our journey to Port Royal, where there are said to be some gentlemen who are seeking this rather unpleasant stuff.”

“Oh,” said Shaftoe, with a look in his eyes that said he was putting two and two together. “Captain Sparrow… you don’t know any Alchemists, do you, by chance?”


	9. An Alchemical Prescription, 8

  
  
Jack Shaftoe had not achieved the ripe old age of twenty-five by being oblivious to the nuances of those various situations into which, from time to time, he found himself precipitated. More than once, back in Europe, he'd survived exposure to villainy, fraud, double-crossing and simple bad temper only through attention to detail and an excellent sense of timing. The evening's good cheer (and good _spirits_ , for Jack'd consumed more than his share of Demerara rum, and that on a stomach which had digested little enough of anything in recent days) had made Jack rather less watchful than usual; he'd not taken the time to explore his new -- albeit temporary -- home, or to think on how Captain Sparrow might've heard of him, Jack Shaftoe; or, indeed, _what_ he might've heard, and from whom.

'Twas all becoming clearer now, in a hazy and gradual sort of way. Jack inhaled deeply, or as deeply as he could given his current recumbent position. Now that he'd been told of the _Black Pearl_ 's mysterious, and unhealthy, cargo, Jack phant'sied he could detect those effluvial emissions of which Sparrow had spoken; a sharp bittersweet odour, and one that Jack thought he'd smelt before, though it was difficult to isolate from the more immediate reek of rum, gunpowder and unwashed pirate. This new smell was in a different class of unpleasantness to the everyday odours of putrescence, rot and ageing with which Jack Shaftoe was intimately acquainted. It made him think of dark rooms, gape-mouthed locals, exotic substances and superficial burns. It was, in short, the sort of smell he associated with Enoch Root.

"Captain Sparrow," he said, "you don't know any Alchemists, do you, by chance?"

Jack Sparrow, still pinning him firmly to the _Pearl_ 's blackened deck, writhed a little more -- surely just to bait Jack -- and propped himself on his elbows. His face was very close to Jack's, and the smell of his breath (rum, and spicy chicken) rather preferable to the mineral redolence that wafted up from the _Pearl_ 's very timbers. Even leaning much of his weight on Jack's torso, Sparrow was not a heavy burden: it'd be easy enough to throw him off. Probably better not though, thought Jack; I've provoked his crew enough already.

"Maybe I do, Jack Shaftoe," said Sparrow, pronouncing each word with care. "Maybe I do. _Maybe_ you and I have the honour to share the acquaintance of one of 'em, eh?"

"You know Enoch, then," said Jack, staring up at the pirate. He could feel the heat of the other man's body, and was dismayed to find that the sensation was not unpleasant. _Far_ too long on that little island, obviously, without even the _option_ of a warm body against his own. Jack recalled, suddenly and vividly, various of the more fabulous dreams that'd entertained him during the long nights. He lay still and tense, wary of inviting ridicule (or worse) if he attempted to extricate himself from Jack Sparrow's hold.

"Enoch Root, aye," said Sparrow. He tilted himself back in one sinuous motion until he was kneeling above Jack, staring down at him, black eyes quite unreadable. "Old friend of mine. Business partner. What's _your_ connection, eh?"

Jack stared back at Sparrow. It was very late and he was very drunk, and he resented the withdrawal of that lithe body's delicious warmth, even while relieved at the retraction of the opportunity to embarrass himself by showing how delicious it had been. Worse; Sparrow's face was illumined by the lanthorn that had (no doubt with every show of caution) been relit, and now it was a golden mask, all planes and curves and dark, dark eyes, eyebrows raised like an actor's, one finger poised at the corner of his mouth. Ah yes: the question.

"Enoch Root," said Jack, gathering his scattered panicky thoughts. "Aye. Met him in Dunkirk, in the dear old Bomb and Grapnel; charming place, perhaps you know it." One part of his brain listened in vague horror to this over-informative stream of small talk. "Came out from London with him, as a matter of fact."

"Aye," said Sparrow, reaching down a hand. Jack stared at it for a moment before clapping hold and letting himself be hauled to his feet. Sparrow was stronger than he looked (which wasn't hard, given the foppish look of the man) and when Jack swayed dizzily, he found himself steadied by the pirate's sinewy grip.

* * *

"Well," said Jack Sparrow generously, "I say we forgive Mr Shaftoe for his very entertaining exhibition, eh, lads?" He did not let go of Shaftoe's arm, and Shaftoe, intriguingly, did not pull away, though Jack could feel the tension thrumming through him. And ooh, that little shiver as Jack'd let him up! Jack Shaftoe looked set to be a nearly infinite source of entertainment, even if he wasn't allowed to play with fire.

Shaftoe licked his lips and swallowed, and Jack's gaze was inexorably drawn to his mouth, imagining the taste of burnt rum.

"Aye," said Burton, grinning. "Since he ain't blown us all to kingdom come."

Shaftoe shrugged, and Jack, conscious of Burton and West's speculative gazes, removed his hand from Shaftoe's person. "Course," he said, winking, "it remains to be seen whether Mr Shaftoe has any _other_ skills -- less potentially hazardous ones, perhaps -- in his repertoire."

Shaftoe shot him a suspicious glare, and Jack met it with the friendliest and most innocent smile of which he was capable. "Come now, Mr Shaftoe," he said. "Surely your acquaintance with our old friend Enoch has opened your eyes to all manner of spectacular, yet perhaps somewhat less _incendiary_ , Acts."

"One or two," said Shaftoe evasively. "One or two."

"Time enough to discuss them when we're underway," said Jack briskly, pivoting on his heel to eye the remaining drinkers. "Unless you'd rather stay here and set fire to the rest of your little kingdom, Mr Shaftoe?"

Shaftoe demurred hastily.

"Time to call it a night, I reckon," said Jack, clapping his hands. "We'll sail with the tide. Oh, and Mr Shaftoe?"

Shaftoe was heading for the corner between the fo'c'sle and the rail, where Burton and his mates were unrolling blankets and mats; but at Jack's words he stumbled and turned, and Jack's wicked heart leapt with glee to see the petulant twist of his mouth.

"I think you'd better come with me, Mr Shaftoe," he said.

"I'll be fine on deck, Captain," said Jack Shaftoe, jaw clenched. "Honestly."

Burton made a low hooting noise, desisting only once he became aware of Jack's repressive gaze.

"The Captain's cabin is quite free of noxious fumes," Jack assured him. "And besides, Mr Shaftoe, if it's all the same to you I'd rather be ... at hand ... in case you're visited by any inflammatory dreams."

"That's hardly --" began Shaftoe, feet braced stubbornly on the deck as though Jack might lunge forward and drag him away.

"Nonsense!" cried Jack, making a show of looking Shaftoe up and down. Pity about the clothes, or ex-clothes; they were really far too ragged to conceal much of Jack Shaftoe's corpus. Jack had a feeling that he might be prone to inflammatory dreams himself, tonight. "Perfectly good hammock, mate," he said anyway. "And I assure you I won't be bothering you."

"You'd better not," said Jack Shaftoe, eyes narrowed: but he followed Jack for'ard.


	10. An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter Nine

  


In the pearly pre-dawn light, the sea spread out around Jack Sparrow like a tarnished pewter plate, hard and unwelcoming, and he shivered a little; the air up here in the maintop, at this time of the day (or was it more properly still considered night?) was the closest these latitudes came to a cold, cleansing English morning, and though he hadn’t experienced one of those firsthand for more years than he cared to count, occasionally he felt an urge for that sharp, chill tang of air. Such as this morning, when he was operating on a completely insufficient ration of sleep, and that modicum had been achieved only in most unrestful circumstances, punctuated by sudden awakenings, and vivid flame-scoured dreams, and the apparently quite random snores of Mr Jack Shaftoe, sprawled shirtless in the hammock not an arm’s length away.

Jack’d woken gasping that final time, eyes wide as an image of the _Pearl_ being blown, as Burton so unpleasantly put it, to kingdom come, faded away to a dream-scrap. The nightmare had filled his body with rush and fight, and he knew he wouldn’t sleep easy again; he’d sighed, and rubbed his eyes, rolled over, and come face to face with the erstwhile castaway.

The blackness of night was easing enough already that Jack could see a mouth slightly open in sleep, issuing soft warm breaths. Shaftoe’s squarely handsome face was peaceful and far less intimidating in repose, and one wide hand splayed on its owner’s chest; at the sight of which, Jack’s own fingers twitched a little, and he frowned at his hand’s easy betrayal. _Come, come!_ he told himself, firmly, and determined to get up at once, before any other part of him should decide its own agenda where Jack Shaftoe was concerned.

Young Joe Henry was a little surprised at his captain’s sudden appearance, so very early, and so very high, but too grateful at the chance for an hour’s shut-eye to argue, beyond a token, “You sure, Cap’n? There’s still a good two hours in the watch.”

“Course I’m sure, I’m here, ain’t I? ‘Sides which, Mr Shaftoe snores something volcanic, he’s driven me out of me own cabin. Go on, get,” said Jack, and flapped his hands at the boy, who said no more, but scrambled down the futtock shrouds like a particularly agile monkey, leaving Jack to the dawn and his thoughts.

Two more days to Port Royal, and it wouldn’t be a day too soon. Jack did not like his cargo, not one bit; he had little sympathy for anything which threatened the wellbeing of his ship, let alone his self. But, at the time, Enoch had presented it as such a good _business proposition_ ; had painted such a tempting picture of the _very special type of man_ who was needed for such an undertaking, and (more importantly) of a three hundred percent profit margin, unheard of on such a short run. Jack’d been positively inspired by the idea, back in Caracas, and had quite shamelessly sold the plan to the rest of his company; ‘twas only when the stuff was loaded, and they’d learned of the _smell_ of it, and seen the way all the Chibcha Indians suddenly began to apply some unspoken rule of minimal distance between the ship and themselves, that he’d had second thoughts. By which time it was far too late, they’d parted with their money and made their investment; so they’d set out upon the straightest route possible back to Jamaica, and yesterday’s brief detour to Jack Shaftoe’s rescue was the first (and, Jack hoped, last) diversion to their purpose.

Two more days.

Jack could not for the life of him decide whether those two days were likely to be delightfully enlivened, or else hopelessly inflamed, by the presence of Jack Shaftoe in his cabin.

Last night (or was it merely very early this morning?) he’d phant'sied, for a brief moment, that Shaftoe’s disavowals of any interest in another man’s attentions might be rooted more in habit and expectation than in actual inclination or desire, or lack thereof. It was all too easy to talk oneself into such a position, when lying atop a strong and handsome man who wasn’t actively disputing the arrangement. But then, despite Jack’s carefully neutral invitation to share his cabin, Shaftoe’d remained resolutely (though rather drunkenly) formal in his gratitude; had slung the hammock as soon as entering, refused Jack’s offer of a clean pair of breeches (which was frustrating on several counts; Jack could see perfectly well how much the man wanted to divest himself of the disgusting rags he wore, for one thing, and for another, well, he wouldn’t’ve been averse to a little light ogling), pulled off his filthy shirt, and bid Jack good-night.

“And thank you, Captain,” he’d added, “for delivering me from my lonely fate.”

“You’re entirely welcome,” Jack’d said, rather vaguely, trying not to stare (not _too_ hard, at any rate) at the wide shoulders, the pleasantly muscled torso, the pale gold sheen of skin only recently introduced to tropical sunlight. And he’d watched Shaftoe climb into the hammock, and then stood in the tiny space betwixt it and his cot, slowly taking off his hat and coat; his boots; making great and noisy work of removing his belt and effects.

Jack Shaftoe had turned his back upon him, the hammock lurching at his motion. Jack, struck with a wicked urge, crept around to the other side of the hammock and placed his pistol upon the table, and with a little sigh, removed his vest, and (rather slowly) his shirt; while pulling it over his head, he risked a glimpse at his guest beneath its hem, and sure enough, was certain that he saw a glitter of eyeball beneath the all-but-closed lid. Hah! He folded the shirt, and stretched his arms wide, yawning ostentatiously.

Jack Shaftoe turned in the hammock, again.

Jack narrowed his eyes, crept back to the other side, and noisily removed his breeches, going so far as to mutter happily _Ahh, that’s better, ain’t it?_ as he climbed into his cot and pulled the sheet over himself, fighting an urge to giggle at the determined clench of Shaftoe’s jaw.

“Sleep well, Mr Shaftoe,” he’d said, and snuffed the lantern. And then proceeded to not heed his own injunction, and sleep particularly badly.

Up in the maintop, Jack yawned, and the crisp air hit deep in his chest. Shaftoe was most entertaining to tease, that much was certain; which was all very well, unless… unless the man doing the teasing was going to accidentally drive himself into some corner of unrequited lust, in which case, it was decidedly unpleasant. And not Jack’s intention at all. Hence his uncertainty as to the probable effect of Mr Jack Shaftoe on the forthcoming days.

_Jack Shaftoe is a Vagabond_ , he told himself sternly, _and a firebug, by the looks of him; and he ain’t interested. So leave him be._

But his fingers still twitched.

Jack scanned the horizon mechanically, the habit ingrained by thousands of hours of watch taking over his body, if not his mind; and then he stopped, and squinted dead ahead, into the brightening horizon. There, was that… it was, he was sure. A thin column of black smoke, where there should be none, for there were no islands in that vicinity. He waited a few minutes, confident that his ship was less likely to be seen than was this signal, until he could see the masts of two… no, three ships; but one was afire.

“Damnation!” Jack muttered to himself. Something was afoot, and something no good, whether it was a misadventure or some contretemps; and what was worse, it was right in his path. He’d no wish at all to take the _Pearl_ any closer, not as she was. But how far would he have to detour to avoid it? It would add a day or two to their journey, and even then he could not guarantee that they would not be seen.

“Deck!” Jack hollered, and when he had the attention of Bill Turner, standing at the helm, he pointed, and cried, “Sails ho!”


	11. An Alchemical Prescription, 10

  
  
Jack Shaftoe woke suddenly with his head pounding, his heart racing and the awareness of a terrible stench assailing his nostrils. He felt as though he were falling, and realised after some reflection that this was because he _was_ falling; a very gradual fall, impeded by the affectionate cling of the bloody hammock, but a fall nonetheless.

Jack bounced off the floor, swearing, and turned on Sparrow, whose witnessing of this inelegance was tantamount to having _caused_ it. (A fragment of inflammatory dream -- a gold-toothed, devilishly smiling fragment -- made Jack blink, and swear again.) But Jack Sparrow, it turned out, was not a witness after all: his narrow cot was empty, and Jack was alone in the pirate captain's cabin.

Jack swore again, this time with relief. He sat down on the edge of Sparrow's cot (there being no one to forbid it) and breathed deeply for a minute or two. This did not help with the terrible stench, at least part of which turned out to be generated by Jack himself, or perhaps his clothing: pity to've refused the offer of clean clothes, but the concomitant necessity of stripping in front of their salaciously grinning donor had put Jack right off _that_ idea. The smell wasn't just the odour of unwashed flesh and cloth, though; there was an evil, insidious, alchemical odour, emanating from somewhere below him; it made Jack's head hurt and his stomach churn, in a way and to a degree that could not be explained solely by his over-consumption of rum last night.

Perhaps the _Black Pearl_ 's mysterious cargo had been to blame for the dreams that'd assailed him. His heart, slowing now, was still pounding from the last of them; an entirely ridiculous dream in which he'd been caught watching Jack Sparrow undress. Jack Shaftoe's nightmares often featured situations in which Jack -- seldom lost for words -- had somehow been struck dumb, unable to argue his case or make any reasonable explanation for his actions. In waking life, this would have sealed Jack Shaftoe's death warrant: Jack would surely have been hanged years ago if it weren't for his ready tongue. Asleep, it seemed, his tongue was the only thing between him and an Unspeakable Fate.

Jack rehearsed the details of the dream -- the Nightmare -- to himself. In the dream, he'd been lying in the hammock again, watching Jack Sparrow undress; the man seemed to have an irresistible urge to parade himself in front of people, Jack'd noticed it last night, and all in all he hadn't been terribly surprised to find Sparrow flaunting himself when the two of them were alone. Jack had done his level best, by turning his back, to give Sparrow a little privacy, but it'd apparently not been a _welcome_ consideration; and there was nothing wrong in looking, after all. Sparrow had some fascinating scars. Jack meant to ask him about some of them, some day. And such an expanse of darkly tanned skin, rippling and taut over muscle and bone, decorated here and there with blue lines of ink, white lines of scar tissue, dark hair at --

Yes. So, Jack'd been watching Sparrow undress, his skin acquiring even more of a golden glow by the way that Jack's half-shut eyes blurred and dazzled the lanthorn-light, and Sparrow had looked straight back at him, and _seen_ him, seen him watching: and instead of laughing it off, explaining that he was simply interested in the tales behind Sparrow's scars and decorations, Jack'd been struck dumb. And then ... then ...

With a shudder of horror, Jack tore his thoughts from the Unspeakable Fate: tried, too, not to pay any attention to the unpleasantly physical aftermath of the dream. Perhaps it'd been the rum, or the sheer relief of rescue, or the malodorous reek of the _Pearl_ 's risky cargo -- though certainly _not_ the itchy proximity of her equally risky captain -- that had provoked such nervous phant'sies. Jack couldn't be blamed for having strange dreams. Nightmares. And this unfortunate state of physical interest was nothing, after all, to do with what he'd been dreaming. He often woke aroused. (Two days to Port Royal! Two days to _women_!) And perhaps those bitter-sweet emanations had some aphrodisiac effect. Jack scrabbled after a vague memory: Enoch, saying something about, what'd he call it, na, nap ... Something about the Greeks, anyway, and how they'd used it to provoke --

"Oh," thought Jack Shaftoe, as shouts and cries erupted six inches above his head. "Oh yes."

* * *

Shaftoe, Jack Sparrow was vexed to see, still wore those villainous breeches, and an appalling excuse for a shirt. Jack intended to relieve him of them at the earliest opportunity.

"What's afoot?" said Shaftoe, his unnervingly awake blue gaze fixed on Jack.

"Sail ahead," snapped Jack. "Two ships, and a wreck."

"You can tell that from here?"

Jack silently passed Shaftoe the telescope. Shaftoe, he was intrigued to note, did not fumble with it, or press the wrong end to his eye.

"Running away?" said Jack Shaftoe. "There's two of them to one of you."

Jack scowled. "Too late to get away unseen," he said. "Though Bootstrap, here, doesn't agree."

"The _Pearl_ can outrun --"

"Wind's changing," said Jack, gesturing irritably at the clouds on the eastern horizon. and the column of smoke that was no longer quite vertical. "They've the weather gauge. And there's two of them. And with what we're carrying --"

"I meant to ask you about that, Captain," said Shaftoe mildly.

"Can't it wait?!"

Shaftoe cocked his head, looking pointedly to the east, where two sets of sails, and their associated hulls, were now visible to every man on deck. "If your cargo's what I think it is," he said, "you may prefer to hear it now."

"Spit it out," said Jack, cursing Jack Shaftoe's mouth, which curved as though it knew the image that his own words'd evoked, supremely irrelevant and improbable, in Jack Sparrow's brain.

Shaftoe came up close. (Really must get him some clean clothes, thought Jack. Possibly a bath, too.) "Enoch suggested your cargo, aye?"

"He did," said Jack.

"What did he call it?"

"Naphtha," said Jack Sparrow. "He had some other name for it, come to me in a moment --"

"Naphtha! That's it!" exclaimed Shaftoe.

Jack frowned at him.

"Captain Sparrow," said Jack Shaftoe, "you don't by any chance happen to have quicklime aboard? I'm taking the pitch as a given: after all, this is the _**Black** Pearl_ \--"

"Mr Shaftoe," said Jack, leaning close, almost too distracted to take any joy in Shaftoe's flinch, "you couldn't -- by any chance -- explain what the hell you're on about?"

"Greek fire," said Jack Shaftoe, grinning like an idiot -- or, yes, a firebug. "I heard of it from Enoch Root."

"I've heard of it," said Jack guardedly. "Heard a lot of things about it. Mr Turner, would you be so kind as to report to me, in shall we say half an hour, on our current stocks of pitch and, and, oh yes, _quicklime_ : splendid. Ah, the Greeks!" he continued, to Shaftoe. "We owe them so much, wouldn't you say?"

" _You_ might owe them something," said Shaftoe, scowling suspiciously at Jack. "Can't say as _I_ do."

Honestly, it was unfair of him, especially now the man'd shown himself every bit as crafty and cunning and inventive as Root: but Jack couldn't resist. "Oh, come now, Mr Shaftoe," he said. "Cradle of civilisation, and all that. The classics! Medicine! Architecture!"

"Sodomy," said Shaftoe, glaring at Jack. "Sodomy, and funny-sounding hymns, and wine that tastes of piss."

"Don't knock it 'til you've tried it, mate," said Jack gleefully: then, over his shoulder as he went off to where Bill stood at the top of the stairs, beckoning, "except the wine, that is."


	12. An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter Eleven

  


Jack Sparrow strove to maintain an impassive face as he stood at the bow, his glass to his eye; he had no clear idea, as yet, of what it might be that they were sailing into, but it did not seem to be a favourable situation. There had clearly been some kind of battle, since even the two ships which were _not_ smouldering and hopelessly doomed bore signs of cannonfire, the small, heavily armed sloop having a wildly flapping rip in her mainsail (which, in Jack's estimation, would require the greater part of half a day to replace, and meanwhile rendered her all but useless, being single-masted) and the other, a barquentine, appearing, through the telescope, to have taken several close range balls to her stem, though too far above the waterline to pose any serious threat.

The central ship was still licked about here and there with flame, but had not struck her colours; she was Spanish. She was going down, there was no doubt about it, and Jack could just make out the panicked lowering of her boats as her crew prepared to abandon.

He was still hoping, partially at least, to avoid the entire fracas, to affect selective blindness, and sail on past; he had no grievance with these pirates, and was not keen to risk the _Pearl_ 's wellbeing for the defence of Spain's honour. Yes, he thought, we shall all politely ignore one another; I shan't bother them, and they'll take the hint, and leave us be also.

"Captain!" said Bootstrap, behind him, and he turned. "We've all the things you asked for, though very little quicklime, and that only by chance." There was a look of concern on his face; he was a straightforward fellow, and did not much care for these alchemical goings-on. Behind him came Jack Shaftoe, looking far more keen for mischief, barely able to stifle a grin. Jack could see it, in the light in his eyes, and the appearance of a dimple on his cheekbone, even though his mouth essayed seriousness.

"Well, Bill, I'm happy to say, I don't think we'll be needing it after all," Jack declared, passing over his glass to prove it. "I’d say that little fracas is over and done with, and they've all taken some measure of a beating; the Spaniards are 'bandoning ship, and I see no reason to interfere, there're plenty of isles for 'em to wash up on, without our help." He watched Shaftoe as he said this, expecting some measure of disappointment – any self-respecting pyromaniac would be gutted by this decision - but did not see it. In fact, if anything, he saw a flicker of relief, and that pleased him. But he could not refrain from poking at this possible sore, and said, unnecessarily, "So no alchemy today, Mr Shaftoe."

Shaftoe shrugged (oh, such broad shoulders did make for a powerfully effective shrug) and was halfway through saying that it was probably all to the good when his gaze - which had been fastened on Jack's, and was most distractingly blue in sunlight - flicked over Jack's shoulder, and a moment later there was a dull retort of cannonfire. Jack spun round and grabbed his spyglass back from Bootstrap, and swore; damnation, those curs were firing on the Spanish boats! One was going down, and the sea around it was speckled with thin, flailing limbs; two others were rowing for their lives.

"Oh, _bollocks_ ," said Jack Sparrow.

“Can I have your glass again?” said Shaftoe, and plucked it from Jack’s grasp, squinting ahead.

Bootstrap smiled grimly. "You want to go and get 'em, Jack?"

"Not particularly," Jack admitted, "but..."

Shaftoe started to laugh, as though the sight of drowning men being fired upon were somehow an amusement, and then he said, “Of all the ships; that’s the _Santa Ana_ , that is, that’s the lot as stranded me!”

“And does that mean we should leave ‘em?” demanded Jack, hotly.

“Quite the reverse!” cried Shaftoe. “All the more amusing to rescue!” And he and Jack exchanged complicit grins.

"Aye, aye," said Bootstrap. "I know. Change of heading, pile on canvas, run out the guns?" He made to leave, to get this underway, but was brought up short by Jack's voice.

"Tell the men they’re not to fire, Bill, not unless they hear it personally from my lips. Not even to get _ready_ to fire."

"But what—"

"Bill, you know what else is on our gundeck! D'you want to be sparking up, to be firing cannon down there, unless we absolutely have to? Besides which, if we're in range, and take a hit..." All Jack's fire-drenched dreams of the previous night flitted through his mind's eye, and he had a nasty superstitious thought that it might only be hindsight that could distinguish between a dream and a premonition. “We’ll run ‘em out, and look as though we mean business; but we ain’t going to win this on firepower, mate.”

"Then we should be sailing as fast as we damn well can in the opposite direction!" said Bootstrap doggedly.

"Probably should," Jack agreed, "but that wouldn't help those poor bastards in the boats any, would it? We might be able to bluff it through… or alternatively… we could try Mr Shaftoe's idea." He looked askance at Jack Shaftoe, and the twitching curve at the corners of his mouth.

“Could someone please explain exactly what Mr Shaftoe’s idea might be? What in hell is _Greek fire_?” put in Bootstrap. He was getting twitchy; Jack knew that this was a sign that Bootstrap sensed one of his Captain’s more obscure tactical approaches coming on, and wasn’t particularly keen. It never failed to encourage Jack, and he bounced a little on the balls of his feet.

“Weapon of the Ancients, Bootstrap, Constantinople and all that, ring any bells? Liquid fire, they say, ain’t that right, Mr Shaftoe? Last word in battles at sea, for it can’t be doused with water. Once your vessel’s hit, there ain’t a damn thing you can do about it.”

“Better’n that,” said Shaftoe, no longer bothering to hide his grin. “According to Enoch, water’s what sets it off.”

Jack felt his face blanch a little. That bit was news to him. “I’m sorry?”

“Aye, water; it mixes into some sort of _jelly_ , and when it hits the water, _kaboom!_ ” This last was accompanied by particularly evocative hand gestures, and a rather disturbing light came into Shaftoe’s eyes.

“Right,” said Bootstrap witheringly. “So, just to set this straight, gentlemen; the two of you are suggesting we—who are, as you may have noted, _floating upon the sea in a ship_ , which is of course _built of wood_ —are going to concoct some sort of foul substance which explodes into flame on contact with _water_ , and furthermore, that flame cannot be _doused_?”

“Exactly,” said Jack briskly; “And it’s clearly a rather fine scare tactic, Bill, since the mere thought of it’s scared the shite out of _you_.”

Bill narrowed his eyes, but was fairly certain that Mad Jack Sparrow had passed his own mental point-of-no-return on this one, and that all further dispute would be futile.

“Right!” cried Jack, clapping his hands together, “Off you go, gents!” Bootstrap rolled his eyes, and stomped off, roaring at the hands, sending men scurrying aloft and below, and within moments, Jack could hear the rumble of the gundeck being cleared, and the gunports opened. Shaftoe was not as obedient, however; he still stood there, tall and straight and frowning a little, and Jack widened his eyes at the man, lifting his hands in a mime of _What?_

"Jack," said Shaftoe, warningly, and Jack frowned a little at this overfamiliarity, which seemed to indicate that the newcomer was less than suitably respectful of Jack's Captainly Rank; "Jack, I can't guarantee anything, I'm not even sure what it's supposed to look like, or how to—"

"Did Enoch Root not describe its receipt to you?"

“In some detail, though I’m not sure I recall it all; but even suppose it can be _generated_ , Jack, how will it be _utilised_?”

“I’m sure we can come up with something, just…” Jack gesticulated wildly, shooing the man away. “ _Think_ about it. But we need to _make_ the stuff first, do we not?”

"Yes, but—"

"But nothing, Mr Shaftoe; there must be some advantage to lurking about with disreputable Alchemists; off you go. Burton!" Jack cried, waving the burly lad over, "Go and help Mr Shaftoe with his Science Experiment, will you?" Burton ran over, excited as a puppy.

“Oh, and one last thing,” said Jack; and he took two steps closer, very much closer, to Jack Shaftoe, leaning forward till there was no more than an inch between their faces; Shaftoe did not bend away from it. Jack tapped a pointy finger on the man’s chest, where his shirt opened over his breastbone, and pale gold hairs curled over skin that was far, far more appealing to a fingertip than the ragged grey fabric which covered the rest of the man. Mmm, warm skin. Jack tapped his finger again, and could feel the heartbeat beneath, and for a moment quite forgot what he was tapping for.

“Yes, Captain?” said Shaftoe, with a warning crack in his voice, and Jack came to.

“I’m quite unnaturally fond of this ship,” Jack said, “not to mention those as sail upon her; and though I surely appreciate your creative input with this little situation, I must tell you that—should any accident befall the Pearl, through your concocting, and should we all be scattered about the sunny Caribbean in tiny, charry morsels—I shall hunt you down in Hades, since that’s doubtless where we’d both be headed, and I shall punish you in such ways that Beelzebub himself will pale to witness your suffering. Clear?”

“See you in Hell, Jack,” said Shaftoe with a grin, and he turned on his heel, and went below.


	13. An Alchemical Prescription, 12

  
  
That Bootstrap fellow, with his lairy yellow shirt, was giving Jack Shaftoe the evil eye, right enough. Jack wished he felt more confident about his alchemical abilities -- _tricks_ , really, most of 'em picked up more to impress girls, and scare off their brothers and husbands, than through any great attraction to Learning.

But Jack Sparrow had riled him, with all those mocking comments and shifty looks, and Jack felt he had something to prove. Besides which, he had a feeling that if he didn't get the Greek Fire right they'd all be swimming home, anyway: those two pirate ships had the advantage of the wind, and though they were currently distracted by target-practice (their targets being the flimsy jolly-boats of the _Santa Ana_ , and those of Jack's erstwhile shipmates who'd kept themselves afloat) it was impossible that they had not noticed the approach of the _Black Pearl_.

"What d'you want me to do, mate?" said Burton. He was a big bloke, as tall as Jack and heavily muscled, and his knuckles were blue with gunpowder; no, with tattoos, like Sparrow's.

Jack snatched his thoughts back from that precipice -- he actually felt dizzy, but that was probably the fumes coming up from below decks -- and turned them to matters more strictly Alchemical. Those ships were too bloody close: he hadn't much time to prepare, nor much to prepare _with_. Jack looked around him, hoping for some spark of inspiration. (Actually, perhaps _not_ a spark, considering the volatile nature of the _Pearl_ 's cargo. He'd give Sparrow one thing: he certainly had guts, sailing around in this Floating Bomb.) There was Bootstrap, distinctive in his nasty shirt, hauling up a small sack from below decks: the quicklime, perhaps. There behind him came what's-his-face, Stone, carrying a pitch-streaked bucket. It was looking increasingly likely that Jack would have to produce a miracle.

There was Burton, waiting to be told his part in it all. The way he stood, all stiff-spined and twitching, reminded Jack of a bloke he'd once known, a German marksman: and thinking of Hans gave Jack an idea.

"Is there anyone aboard who can use a, a what d'you call it, a _crossbow_?" he enquired.

Burton confessed that he'd had some experience of the weapon; "'Tis quieter than a firearm," he said, "so right 'andy for poaching. An' Cooper, he's near as good a hand with it as --"

"Lovely," said Jack, seeking to curb this flow of reminiscence. "You got one? Here on the _Pearl_?"

Burton called over another fellow, a dark-faced shifty gipsy-looking chap, and the two of 'em murmured together for a moment, some thick country speech. Jack could not pick out one word in six, and it irritated him.

"Aye, sir," said Burton after a moment, all respectful in the face of Jack's exasperated look. Cooper took himself off importantly, though Jack noticed that he pulled his neckerchief up over his mouth before braving the stairway down to the gundeck. "'E's gone to sort it all out," offered Burton helpfully. "Shall I go an' give 'im a hand?"

Jack bit back a sharp reply, for there had been something unsettling about Cooper: still, Jack'd promised not to bother anyone, and he hadn't been the _target_ of those hot looks.

"No, mate," he said, as cheerily as he could manage. "We're going to brew up some hot soup."

Bootstrap deposited his burden and was sent, grumbling, down to the hold for a barrel, cask, whatever of Enoch Root's Mystery Cargo. "Have a care with it," said Jack Shaftoe helpfully. "Terrible flammable, it is: or so I hear."

Sparrow waved a hand, from the safety of the poop deck, in their general direction, indicating that Jack should set up his Science Experiment in the bows of the _Black Pearl_ : a good long way, Jack noted sourly, from the captain himself, though horribly exposed to the spray that occasionally flew up from the ship's stem.

"Aye, mate, over here," he directed Burton, who obligingly manoeuvred the heavy copper kettle to a sheltered spot, out of sight of the barquentine. They were close, very close: Jack phant'sied he could hear the cries of those Spaniards who had not yet drowned.

"What now?" said Burton. Cooper came up to them both with an armful of weaponry: a pair of crossbows, which Jack was pleased to see were gleaming with oil, and a sheaf of bolts.

"Set 'em down there, mate," he directed. "Now, what've you got in the way of, hmm, leather pouches?"

A blank look.

"Empty bottles? Nah, they all go over the side, don't they ... old rags?"

Cooper went off, and Burton busied himself with the crossbows, watching Jack wide-eyed as he tipped quicklime into the kettle, muttering to himself.

"Is that ... _magick_ , sir?" Burton ventured after a minute or so, when Jack's muttering redoubled. Burton had stopped fiddling with the mechanisms and was holding himself tense, clearly ready for flight at the first sign of trouble.

"Do I _look_ like a magician?" snapped Jack. He flicked a glance up at the barquentine, horribly close now, and another irritable look aft, to where Bootstrap (his green-tinged face clashing horridly with his shirt) was wrestling a good-sized cask up onto the deck. No one seemed keen to get in his way.

Burton mumbled something, but Jack wasn't listening. He prodded the mixture with the ramrod he'd been using, worried that he'd missed something out. It'd looked simple enough when Enoch ...

"That's it, mate, just set it down here," he told Bootstrap. "You feeling all right, Mr Turner?"

Bootstrap shot Jack a vile look and hurried aft, leaving Jack -- eyes watering at the fumes -- to lever off the tight-caulked lid of the cask.

He had to step back when it came off: so did Burton, coughing.

"Where's your mate got to?" said Jack indistinctly, jamming the crook of his elbow against his nose. The naphtha was a turgid, lumpy-looking syrup, not quite as Jack recalled; but it would have to do. And if he remembered rightly --

"You keep an eye on that lot, mate: keep stirring," he directed Burton, thrusting the ramrod into the other's hand. Yes, Sparrow was still there on the poop-deck, glass at his eye: no sign of Bootstrap. "Just got to fetch something."

Enoch had used brandy to get the stuff aflame; but then they'd been in Dunkirk, where that was the drink of choice, not on some pirate-infested ... Jack stopped himself following that train of thought to its logical conclusion. He plunged aft to the captain's cabin, wrenched open the door, braced himself against the lintel for a moment, eyes searching ...

There. And as he snatched it up, Sparrow's voice came from behind him, unflatteringly icy: "Where d'you think you're going with that, Mr Shaftoe?"

* * *

Energy was pouring off Shaftoe like sweat -- in fact, sweat was pouring off him too, and heat. He twisted round, and winked, and said, "Trust me, Jack: all part of the procedure."

"Last-minute nerves, Mr Shaftoe?" said Jack, raising an eyebrow. "Perhaps you've noticed how very _close_ we seem to have come to those other little ships."

"I'd noticed," said Jack Shaftoe, grinning his manic grin. "Have you a tinder-box?" And without waiting for an answer, he twisted out from the cabin, squeezing past Jack without any feigned recoil, and headed for the bow.

Jack went after him. Burton, poor bloke, was prodding some smelly mess tentatively, as though it might blow up in his face. Jack supposed this was a fair summation of the possibilities.

Shaftoe had picked up a pewter tankard from somewhere: now he dipped it into the naphtha, grimacing at the vapours that rose from the cask, and sloshed a hearty measure into the copper kettle. Burton leapt back smartly, and Shaftoe swore and lunged for the ramrod, and gave the kettle's contents a stir. Smoke, or steam, began to rise from it, and Jack and Burton began to cough.

Shaftoe had tucked Jack's flask into the top of his trousers. (Jack could not help it if that drew his eye.) Now he opened it, and upended it over the gunge in the kettle, and thrust the ramrod back into Burton's massive paw. "Stir!" he yelled. "Don't stop!"

In the space after Shaftoe's commands, Jack could hear sailors - pirates, really, with language like that -- on the other ship, the barquentine, shouting orders. The sloop was still further off, crippled by the damage to her mainsail. Jack glanced up: the barqentine was very close. And for some reason Shaftoe, cursing, was taking off his shirt.

Jack rolled his eyes. "Why _now_?" he demanded silently of Fate. "Can't you see I'm busy?"

Then Jack Shaftoe, _shirtless_ Jack Shaftoe, was shouldering Jack aside again, reaching down for something on the deck. (Jack found one part of his mind comprehensively absent without leave, distracted by the slide of Shaftoe's muscles underneath his skin. The duller, cannier part of him was shouting aft to Bill, who had the helm: "Bring her about!")

And as the _Black Pearl_ turned to show her ferocious (if currently toothless) broadside to the other pirate ship, Jack Shaftoe -- ripping that horrible excuse for a garment, piece from piece -- was winding a crossbow bolt in dirty linen, and dipping it into the reeksome mess.

"Give me fire!" he demanded; and when Jack (being fond of his ship, and his life, and his men) did not immediately comply, he whirled and stepped up close to Jack, very close, very warm, so warm that Jack wondered for a moment why Jack Shaftoe _needed_ fire: and said, low and urgent, "Jack -- _trust_ me."


	14. An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter Thirteen

  


There came a loud retort and a fiery burst of smoke from the barky, and a great splash and steam as a hissingly hot ball fell no more than fifty yards short of the _Pearl_ ’s bows; Sparrow jerked back from Jack, turned and roared, “Close enough, boys; slack an’ reef, and fast mind! And Bootstrap, take a boat down; be ready to go and get the survivors, soon as we’ve dissuaded these dogs from their target practice.” Bootstrap, not looking particularly sorry to get the hell out of there, nodded and disappeared.

Sparrow turned back to Jack then, gave a little bow, and pulled out his tinderbox, saying, “So I’m to trust you, eh, Mr Shaftoe? D'you know, I do believe I shall; though I may live to regret it.”

The man’s eyes were devilish dark, and a faint sheen of sweat lay over his face; but unlike several of the other men standing about, licking their lips nervously, Jack phant’sied that the Captain’s glow came not from fear, but from sheer wicked excitement; and he liked him for it, feeling rather the same way himself.

“Here you go, Burton,” Jack said, and passed him the bolt, slung about with its evil-smelling bandage; Burton took it, a little trepidatiously, and loaded the bow, tucking it ‘neath his chin and taking aim. “Captain, would you do the honours?” said Jack, and added, “And Burton, as soon as that’s lit, and I mean _as soon as_ , you loose that bolt, hear? And aim low.”

He stood on one side of Burton, and Sparrow on the other, and they glanced at one another as Sparrow worked up a spark; and Jack, still surprised and rather delighted by the pirate’s taste for risky behaviour, gave him his widest smile. Which was returned, showing very white teeth in a tanned face, and Jack Sparrow’s tongue darted out across his plump bottom lip; and then he said, “Don’t aim too low, Mr Burton, I suspect Mr Shaftoe don’t know that much about _trajectories_.”

Burton shot Jack a nervous look, but obeyed his captain, lifting the angle of the bow as Sparrow’s spark took on a dangling tail of soaked linen, and flamed up white and hot, and Burton loosed the bolt; it streaked forward, the brightest fire that any of them had ever seen, and the world went quiet for a second as they all held their breath and watched it soar out and down, and then it struck, ripping through the foresail and embedding itself a few feet up the mast, and tongues of flame began to lick about the canvas and wood that had been in its path.

An angry cry floated across from the barquentine, echoed by a happier one on the _Pearl_. “Ain’t that a beautiful thing!” cried Jack Sparrow, and Joe Henry, perched above on a yardarm, was shouting, “It’s like the sun, it burns so bright, it’s a magick fire ain’t it!” Cooper was clapping Burton on the back, complimenting him on his shot, and the men were wreathed in smiles; but Jack scowled, and stood with his hands on his hips.

“No, no, no, gents!” he said. “That ain’t it at all. Why, the same could be achieved with pitch alone! That’s not what we want to do; but wait! Wait! See there!” And he pointed at a line of men passing buckets of water forward, and began to bounce a little. “Watch this! Watch this!”

And here came the first bucket, and as the cascade of water hit that strange white flame, it seemed to triple, quadruple in size, and men were thrown back from it; the sound of the explosion came a moment later, but white flame had been spattered all about, a twelve-foot radius of blaze and burning and shrieking sailors, and chaos erupted upon the deck of the barquentine.

On the _Pearl_ , there was a moment of stunned silence.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” said Jack Sparrow, his jaw a little slack.

Jack hopped up and down, giddy with delight, and passed over another loaded bolt. “Aim LOW this time, Burton,” he said; and Sparrow, understanding now, added, “Aye, and at the stem, where they’ve already taken fire!”

This time the bolt hit home close to the waterline, and the explosion was immediate, and gratifyingly devastating; men standing on the deck fell down from the concussion of it, and the fire blazed wild and bright, as wild and bright as Jack Sparrow’s dancing glee. The crew of the sloop had ceased firing at the survivors and were staring in dismay, and the one remaining boatload of Spaniards in the water were rowing for their lives. Bootstrap and two others in the jolly boat emerged from the lee of the _Pearl_ , keeping a keen eye on the barky as they went, but making for the nearest swimmers.

“Keep going, Mr Burton!” cried Sparrow. “Don’t give ‘em time to regroup!”

“Last one, captain,” said Cooper, passing over the bolt; “We’ve used up Shaftoe’s shirt, now.”

“Then by all means get started on his trowsers!” said Sparrow, with a mockingly fastidious glance at said garment, and for a moment Jack was quite taken aback; but he was so delighted with the outcome of this Experiment, and with his newfound respect for the pirate Captain, that he felt he could as easily turn the joke around, and play it right back at Jack Sparrow, since he seemed so keen to play that game.

“Aye, aye, sir,” he said, with a wide-eyed look in Sparrow’s direction; and he ripped the half-rotted canvas up above mid-thigh, and round, and presented it to Cooper, striking a pose that shewed off his leg to best advantage, and laughing at Jack Sparrow’s sudden flush.

*

Oh, the unexpected warm gold that lay beneath that filthy fabric! He’d meant to discombobulate, sure enough, but Jack Shaftoe had bounced it right back at him; he could feel the heat that had risen to his face, and this wasn’t the time to be taken with such thoughts, not when facing armed adversaries, and with a great kettle of home-made explosives rolling about on one’s deck. And whereas the loss of the shirt had left Jack at least partially _compos mentis_ , able to partition his head into diverse portions which could continue to operate his external self with an appearance of normality—well, he could not say the same about the wanton destruction of those execrable trousers. Damn taunting Jack Shaftoe!

But Shaftoe wasn’t finished, yet; a harsh ripping sound, and off came the other leg; Cooper rolled his eyes and took Jack’s tinderbox from his motionless hand, and Burton fired, and fired again, and cheers went up at the roaring, flaming, splintering impact of it.

“How’re we going?” enquired Jack Shaftoe, glancing up with bright blue eyes and a wholly fraudulent expression of innocence, his hands at his frayed hem, ready to rip again. Jack swallowed a mouthful of saliva. He suspected that Shaftoe hadn’t bothered to wear terribly much, when he was all on his onesies on that little spit of an island. The sun had gently toasted his skin, gently paled the hairs on his thighs… Jack clenched his hands, beset by a terrible urge to touch, and dragged his gaze away, out to the other ship, which was now burning merrily.

“I think that’ll suffice,” he said, a trifle faintly. “See, there? Ain’t that a white flag?” And it was, a long white banner being waved frantically from the less-ablaze stern of the ship, and there, another from the sloop; and a thin cheer came up from the men in the water.

“That was brilliant!” cried Burton. “Three cheers for Jack Shaftoe, eh lads!”

In the roar of general agreement, Shaftoe stood grinning, and then he held up a hand, and said, “Thank you gentlemen, I’m glad to’ve been of service; more importantly, three cheers for Jack Sparrow, the most insanely fearless Captain a pirate company could hope to sail under!”

“Hear hear!” piped Henry, up above, and Jack glanced up at him and grinned.

“Why, thank you all,” he said, “but we ain’t finished yet. Got to pick up all that human flotsam and jetsam and get out of here, before some stray spark sets us off.” He sauntered over and peered into the kettle, where a dreadful miasma seeped from the glutinous remains, setting him coughing. “I don’t think we’ll be cooking up anything in there in a hurry; in fact, given the remainder of our cargo, I think I’d be happier with it gone altogether. Mr Shaftoe, if you’d be so kind?” And Jack took up the handle on one side. Shaftoe took the other, and they man-handled the noisome thing down to the stern, and from there, with three great swings, heaved it overboard; it struck some way behind them, and as the salt water slopped inside, began to fizz and bubble horridly. As it sank below the waves, it gave off a greenish-white glow, and could be seen, wafting side-to-side, fading slowly as the blue fathoms took it for their own.

“You must give me the recipe,” said Jack, breaking the silence, and trying not to stare at half-naked Jack Shaftoe.

Shaftoe laughed, the muscles of his belly tightening as he did, sunlight glinting from a fine arrowing line of hair, and Jack gritted his teeth against the squirming warmth the sight engendered in him. “I can tell you now,” Shaftoe was saying, “it was more luck than judgment, Jack; still most of the best things in life are, eh?”

“Absolutely,” said Jack fervently, this sentiment being very closely allied to his own Approach to Life; and so taken was he with this sign of a kindred spirit (and no, not at all because he was fuelled by any baser urges) he pulled Jack Shaftoe into an embrace, clapping him on the back and congratulating him on his Alchemical Proficiency. Waiting, tensed, to be pushed away, and given that narrow-eyed look that said he’d gone too far.

But Jack Shaftoe hugged him back, still laughing and delighted; and Jack’s palms felt burnt by the sweaty heat of the man’s shoulders, and he breathed in, and in, and in, sucking in the faintly chemical, yeasty smell that rose from Shaftoe’s skin. Oh, too much; oh, nowhere near enough.

And then came footsteps behind them, and a sardonic voice said, in a richly foreign accent, “Mr Shaftoe, you break my heart; and yet, how delightful that you have found a captain more… to your liking!”

Shaftoe leapt back from Jack as though scalded, and Jack fought back the blackest of scowls, and turned to meet his newest guest.


	15. An Alchemical Prescription, 14

  
  
Jack knew that voice. He leapt back from the searing (yet strangely pleasant) heat of Sparrow's incriminating embrace as hastily as he could, knowing that it was already too late. How must it look, to his former shipmates? To Don Esteban de Espinosa, Jack Shaftoe must now appear a liar, a hypocrite, a turncoat knave.

None of which bothered Jack particularly much -- it was hardly the first time that someone had thought the worst of him -- but to be suspected of such unnaturalness stung, a little: and worse by far was the notion of being tarred with the same brush, pigeonholed in the same nook, as Captain Jack Sparrow. Sparrow had probably set him up for this, in fact: he must've seen Don Esteban coming, and decided to play yet another game with Jack, the aim of this one being to leave Jack Shaftoe all but naked, hotly flushed with embarrassment, and faced with the mocking gaze of the Spanish captain.

Yet Jack Sparrow (when Jack inspected his expression for signs of mischief) did not _look_ especially gleeful. He was glaring at Don Esteban, but not as though they were in cahoots together: no, Jack Sparrow looked remarkably ... irritated.

"Won't you introduce us, Jack?" he was saying, his eyes never leaving the dripping, slightly singed form of Don Esteban.

"This ... _gentleman_ ," said Jack, meeting the Spaniard's appraising look with an unfriendly scowl of his own, "is Don Esteban de Espinosa, who was captain of that Spanish barky that so _cruelly_ cast me ashore."

"How delightful!" cried Sparrow, with mercurial cheer. "Captain Jack Sparrow of the _Black Pearl_ : I'd say, 'at your service', but in fact I b'lieve we've already done you service enough, what with fishing you out of the briny, et cetera."

"Pardon?" said Don Esteban, cupping an ear. His salacious gaze kept straying back to Jack, and Jack didn't care for it one bit.

"Jack," he said, "I'll take you up on that offer of fresh kit, if you have it."

"Hmm," said Jack Sparrow, flicking a look at Don Esteban and another at Jack, who flushed warmer. "Well, Mr Shaftoe, you do seem to be in considerable _need_ of ... new clothes."

"Matey here's enjoying the view a bit too much," said Jack hotly, "and I'll smash his ugly mug if he don't stop staring." Perhaps _Sparrow_ would get the message, too, though he was paying reassuringly little attention to Jack's state of undress. Only fair, really, since it was all his fault.

"Pardon?" said Don Esteban again, examining Jack's bare legs: and Sparrow opened his eyes wide, and said, "Oh, I _see_."

"He can't hear me," said Jack blithely, "he's as deaf as a post."

"Post?" said Don Esteban. "What post?"

Jack's skin tingled where the man's gaze lingered: or perhaps it was that Jack Sparrow was staring at him too, smiling vaguely.

"Clothes?" demanded Jack, exasperated, and Sparrow seemed to collect himself: at least, he stopped smiling. "Pick yourself something out of my trunk, Mr Shaftoe," he said. "Bill'll lend you a shirt if you don't find one to your taste."

For a moment Jack was tempted to protest that he wasn't _that_ desperate: but on reflection, he probably was, so he kept his mouth shut and headed aft to the captain's cabin, shoving his way roughly through those of the _Santa Ana_ 's crew who'd survived piracy and submersion, and ignoring their greetings, observations, appreciations and speculations on his sartorial state.

He latched the cabin door behind him and slumped against it, just breathing, for a moment. What had possessed --? But no, he knew perfectly well what had possessed him: the urge to play Sparrow at his own game, to discombobulate him as perfectly as he'd aimed to discombobulate Jack.

And the game wasn't over yet.

* * *

Jack screwed his features into some semblance of a polite smile, and turned his attention, with difficulty, from the lithe, retreating form of Jack Shaftoe to Don Esteban. Bootstrap had reappeared -- his filthy yellow shirt causing some commotion on the crowded deck -- and Jack favoured him with a few terse commands concerning fresh water and hammock-space, and the undesirability of having Spanish sailors running loose like so many beasts.

"Any more to fish out?"

"We got 'em all, Captain," said Martingale.

"Then let's be away, gentlemen!" cried Jack to his crew. "Mr Turner, you have the helm."

"You are clever, Captain Sparrow," the Spaniard congratulated him as a bustle evolved around the two of them, there in the bows. "How long has Mr Shaftoe been on your ship, eh?"

"Picked him up yesterday," said Jack loudly, rocking on his heels. "From that little islet where you stashed him away. Not very kind-hearted of you, Captain, now was it?"

Don Esteban shrugged. He was half a head taller than Jack, and his dark aristocratic features looked as though they would fall into a sneer at the slightest provocation. Presently, his expression was rather more lascivious.

"All is fair," he said, grinning at Jack. "So the proverb goes, yes? And Mr Shaftoe, he has chosen you." He peered at Jack, cataloguing the various ornaments, decorations, and artefacts with which Jack'd adorned himself of late. "Though this is not clear, why an English pirate is more to Mr Shaftoe's taste than a Spanish captain."

Jack spread his hands wide. "I'm Captain Jack Sparrow," he said reprovingly. But, oh God, it wasn't clear to him, either, why Jack Shaftoe had hugged him back; why Shaftoe had stripped down, wide-eyed and grinning like a maniac, before Jack's very eyes: why Jack Shaftoe was _at this very moment_ in Jack's cabin, naked. Probably naked. Oh, all that warm golden ...

Don Esteban was regarding him with polite bemusement. Jack couldn't imagine Shaftoe grinning at this man, or playing any kind of game with him, no matter how sensuous that curve to the man's mouth, nor how sleek the muscles that appeared, in a sort of bas-relief, beneath his gently-steaming shirt. A handsome enough fellow, though Jack had not forgiven him for interrupting his first -- perhaps his only -- embrace with Jack Shaftoe.

Don Esteban shrugged. "Well," he said, "he said he had no taste for such things: but perhaps he has changed his mind, yes?"

"Perhaps it's just the company he keeps," said Jack: and then, with Don Esteban cupping his ear, had to repeat it for the edification and amusement of all.

Aha! And here came Jack Shaftoe, dressed like a Christian in Jack's spare breeches (rather close-fitting on him) and a somewhat stained, but otherwise inoffensive, shirt. The thought of Shaftoe donning Jack's own clothes, putting them on over his bare skin, gave Jack a peculiar thrill; but he suppressed it ruthlessly.

Shaftoe shot Don Esteban a disdainful look, and came to stand next to Jack. "Has he told you the whole sad tale?" he enquired.

"What tale's that?" murmured Jack.

"Treasure trove, and hidden islands, and the like: the usual stuff," said Shaftoe dismissively, not bothering to lower his voice.

"None of the above," said Jack: "we've really just been getting to know one another."

Don Esteban, catching this phrase (or perhaps mistaking it for some other sentiment) beamed at the two of them, and Shaftoe scowled ferociously. He caught Jack's elbow and turned him so that the two of them stood with their backs to Don Esteban.

"What's he said about me?"

"What are you --"

"What's he said about me, Jack?" Was it worth checking Mr Shaftoe's reprehensible tendency to be over-familiar with his captain? Certainly not. "Does he, y'know ..." Shaftoe's voice trailed off, and he gestured.

"Don't worry, Mr Shaftoe," soothed Jack, clapping his own hand over Shaftoe's warm paw for a brief moment. "He won't be giving you any trouble."

Shaftoe gave him a suspicious, narrow-eyed look. "But --"

"Jack," said Jack Sparrow, with a wide sharp-edged grin, " _trust_ me."


	16. An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter Fifteen

  


The cabin was transformed, Jack’s hammock stowed, the leafed ends of the table extended, three lanterns hanging overhead; the table was set, if not with china and crystal, at least with some barely dented pewter, and several actual glasses, which was impressive. The food, sadly, was less so; the cook was being stretched to the limits of his ingenuity, to suddenly provide for thirty-odd additional mouths. And they were Spanish mouths, too, doubtless used to all manner of spice and oddity; cook was having none of that, and it was salt pork and biscuit, and a suet pudding to follow for those dining with the captain.

Still, Jack reflected, there seemed to be plenty of rum to go around; he couldn’t accuse Sparrow of stinting there, and the six around the table had polished off near three bottles between ‘em. The two Spanish officers, Inigo de Halcones and Carlos Montoya, clearly overjoyed to have lived to see the moonrise, had raised numerous toasts to their rescuers, and didn’t hesitate to repeat them whenever the flimsiest of gaps arose in the conversation; Bootstrap Bill, whenever mention was made of the means of their deliverance, winced a little and cleared his glass, apparently eager to eliminate the entire episode from his memory; Sparrow drank the stuff as though it was water, anyway, and Espinosa seemed determined to keep up with him.

Jack himself was drinking largely because it was there. And to dull the impact of Espinosa’s smouldering glances.

For smouldering they were, in a particularly _Latin_ fashion, which seemed to involve lowered lashes, and half-smiles, and glimpses of bared teeth; they were utterly shameless, and were provoking Jack to quite exceptional levels of wrath, levels which could really only be addressed by the soothing application of grog.

“Such a courageous action,” murmured Don Esteban, half-closing his eyes as if swooning from the mere recall of it all. “Not one man in a thousand would do such a thing. It is, surely, the work of Our Lord that brought you here, to save us.” He brought his long, elegant fingers to his own lips, kissing them, and then pressing kissed fingertips down onto the brown hand of the object of his admiration.

“Not at all, not at all,” said Jack Sparrow loudly, with a rather canine smile. “Least we could do. Most welcome, as I mentioned, so please, don’t let’s dwell upon it.” He extracted his hand from beneath the Spaniard’s, patting it in return, and taking up his tankard; and if his look was not as blatantly loaded as Don Esteban’s, still, it was not unfriendly.

Jack swigged his rum. Dear God, the two of ‘em deserved one another. It really didn’t bear watching. But he was stuck up this end of the table, across from Espinosa, with Sparrow on his left at the head; and Turner was deep in some serious Nautickal Discourse with the other two, some subject which was so very foreign and unfamiliar to Jack that he actually didn’t recognise it at all, and hence was quite utterly unable to interject.

It certainly wasn’t that he wanted those smoulders aimed his way, oh no; his irritation was, rather, stoked by the repulsively cavalier rapidity with which the Spanish captain had redirected his attentions. And redirected ‘em straight to Jack Sparrow! _Straight_ to Sparrow, as though that strange creature were some irresistible magnet for Unnatural Urges!

He was scowlingly pouring more treacle on the last of his duff when a knee touched his, with careful deliberation; he almost dropped his spoon, grinding his teeth and quelling the urge to jump like a scalded cat. He moved his leg, and (uncertain as to the responsible party) glared at them both; to no avail, since neither of them was paying him any attention at all. Which was, frankly, boring, and a situation in need of remedy.

“So, Don Esteban,” Jack said, enunciating clearly, and waving his spoon around to gain the fellow’s attention, “How did the treasure-hunting go, eh? Did it all go down to the depths with the _Santa Ana_?”

“Ah, no, Mr Shaftoe,” said Espinosa, tearing his gaze away from Jack Sparrow, “I have still” (the man’s aitch was guttural, as exaggerated as that of any Spanish villain Jack’d seen portrayed in the theatre, and he forced down an urge to giggle) “my treasure, right here.” He patted at the pocket of his coat. “I have my map; and we were near, so very near, when those fiends closed upon us. Death seemed certain, yes?; and then, over the horizon, you came, Captain, and—”

“Yes, yes, yes, you’re welcome, _again_ ,” said Sparrow hurriedly. “So what makes you think this map’s so special? There’s any number of old scraps of parchment wafting around the Caribbean these days, all promising riches.”

“Pardon?”

Jack thought he could see a muscle tighten at Sparrow’s jawline, but he repeated his question, loud and simple, and the Spaniard smiled, and ran his fingers back through his hair, which was unnaturally black, and glossy, and curly, and clearly his pride and joy, thought Jack disparagingly. At least Jack Sparrow, though he was every bit as vain, was pleasantly _grubby_ about it; and his hair certainly wouldn’t be overly familiar with the concept of a combing, either.

“This map is special, you are right; it comes from a great _English_ explorer, you did not know that, did you, Meester Shaftoe? From Rrralegh himself. And now Spanish hands will find his cache, yes? Is that not a strange thing?” And he laughed, showing very white teeth, and slapped Sparrow on the shoulder.

“Ralegh’s map, eh?” said Jack Sparrow, his head on one side. “Not many of those about. Family heirlooms, most of ‘em, I’d imagine. Where’d you get that?”

Don Esteban leant in conspiratorially, eyes bright. “I cannot say… but this much is true; such treasures do not come cheaply. In truth, such treasures cannot be _bought_ at all, my friends!”

It really was too much to take. “Filthy Spanish thief,” muttered Jack in a fit of wild hypocrisy, the words filtered through a mouthful of treacle and accompanied by a baleful glare.

“Pardon?”

Jack looked up at him, barely able to disguise his loathing. “I _said_ —” he began hotly; but Sparrow chimed in, with, “He said, ‘He gave the Spanish grief’; Ralegh, you know. But, ha ha, water under the bridge, eh?”

Don Esteban inclined his head (raising it for another one of Those Looks) and Jack, although he still felt a pressing urge to be insulting, was rather glad to’ve been saved from its consequences; he looked over at Sparrow, to give him a glance of thanks, and met black eyes so very full of laughter that he was confused for a moment. Then the knee hit his again, and again, and again, and he realised that Sparrow—far from being drawn in by Don Esteban’s determined interest—was highly amused by the entire situation.

Rum surged warmly in Jack’s blood, and he felt the gentle tickle of his old nemesis, the Imp of the Perverse, at his side. He smiled up at the Don, and (waiting for a moment in which the other end of the table were laughing loudly) said, “Should’ve let you drown, you papist pig.”

Sparrow’s knee went wild under the table, bounding up and down. The Don’s eyes narrowed just a little, but all that came forth was a polite, predictable, “Pardon?”

“I was wondering,” said Jack, loudly, “how far _down_ you think you’ll have to _dig_. For the treasure, you know. Probably pretty well hid, eh?”

“I have no idea,” said the Spaniard, rather thinly, and turned his attention pointedly back to Sparrow, who favoured him with a terrifyingly wide smile.

“But now, Captain Sparrow, I find myself in a difficult situation; I have a _map_ , and yet, no _ship_ ; and you, quite the opposite, no?” Don Esteban’s long fingers shaped his already perfectly pointed goatee.

Jack Sparrow lifted his tankard in front of his mouth, and said, “That won’t get you into my trousers, mate.”

The Imp cavorted beside Jack, and the Spaniard had barely cupped his hand to his ear before he found himself saying, “You must speak _up_ , Jack, our guest’s a little hard of hearing.”

Sparrow reached over to Jack’s plate, scooping up the last of the duff, popping it in his mouth, and then gesturing to Jack as if to say, _Please, do explain what I just said!_

“He _said_ ,” said Jack loudly, “He does like Spanish _blouses_ , they’re _great_.”

“Such a pity that my possessions are all lost to me,” said Don Esteban, graciously, “for I should have been pleased to share all that I have, with my rescuer.”

Jack Sparrow’s chin began to wobble, and he looked close to tears; his sharp knee smacked repeatedly against Jack’s. Jack laughed aloud, having the most wonderful fun all of a sudden; and did not stop to wonder why it was that his feelings about this gathering had changed so precipitously. Did not stop to analyse, or even to really note, that he did not move his leg away; but shifted it, gently, so that Sparrow’s knee would hit him in the muscle of his thigh, instead of striking bruisingly against his own bony kneecap.

And did not think to mind, not a bit, when Sparrow’s hand disappeared beneath the tabletop, and began to dance a gleeful jig on Jack’s leg, as the pirate made yet another outrageous declaration to his poor, unwitting guest, and stuffed his mouth again, his long finger prodding his grinning partner-in-crime.

*

The two of them were still stifling their laughter hours later, when their dinner companions had taken themselves off to sleep (“I’m most _dreadfully_ sorry not to be able to offer you the comfort of the captain’s cabin, Don Esteban; but I couldn’t possibly be so rude as to ask my current guest to vacate…”) and the last dregs of the last bottle were about to disappear.

“Told you he wouldn’t give you any trouble,” said Sparrow, slurring a little, and waving the bottle around by its thin neck.

“And why, exactly, were you so sure that he’d prefer you to me, eh?”

“Ah, ‘m a _magnet_ for that sort, me.”

Jack looked at him pityingly. “You _are_ that sort, you bloody idiot.”

“I am not!” cried Sparrow indignantly, and then decided to change the subject with all possible dispatch. “Anyway, you prefer me, too.”

“To give that some context, I prefer you to _Don Esteban_ , a slimily lecherous, sadly deaf Spaniard,” said Jack, witheringly.

“Oh, context, eh? Well, give me some more context, Mr Shaftoe, by all means; tell me, of all the _other_ souls on this ship, who do you prefer to me?” And exasperating Jack Sparrow leant forward, elbows on the table, chin in his hands, great black eyes full of mischief staring up at Jack, and repeated his question: “Come on; who d’you prefer to me?”


	17. An Alchemical Prescription, 16

  
  
Jack couldn't, offhand, recall an evening he'd enjoyed more. On the one hand, the flatteringly extravagant attentions of the handsome Don Esteban de Espinosa: on the other hand, the wicked gleam in Jack Shaftoe's eyes as he abetted -- nay, augmented -- Jack's torment of their oblivious guest. Jack's ribs ached from suppressing so much mirth.

And now the two of them were alone -- Don Esteban having been taken off by Bootstrap to a comfortably-fitted (yet strangely mephitic) cabin on the lower deck -- Jack Shaftoe was providing ever more entertainment. Oh, that disdainful expression! Even in the lanthorn-light, Shaftoe's eyes were startlingly blue, and wide with mistrust. Well-placed mistrust.

"Come on; who d'you prefer to me?" needled Jack, leaning forward, the picture of disbelieving curiosity.

Shaftoe rolled his eyes. "Well, _obviously_ ," he began, and then cleared his throat, and sat back, and reached for the bottle. Jack let him take it, not varying his expression one whit.

"No, go on, Mr Shaftoe. _Do_ tell," he encouraged.

"It's a daft question," said Jack Shaftoe, a belligerent tilt to his chin. "They're all blokes, or so I think I may safely assume, having seen 'em with their shirts off. I don't _prefer_ any of 'em. And I don't prefer _you_ , either, so you can take that smirk off your face."

Jack thought of protesting this, on the grounds that he was actually quite incapable of removing the aforementioned smirk, what with an evening spent in league with Jack Shaftoe, in _close proximity_ to Jack Shaftoe, revelling in the other man's ready wit and wicked humour, revelling _more_ in the way that Shaftoe didn't edge away, or slap Jack, or draw attention to the presence of Jack Sparrow's hand on his knee. Not to mention all that rum. But Shaftoe was so delightfully, helplessly indignant, looking daggers at Jack, and Jack could not help but smile even more broadly at the sight.

"So there's no one you prefer to me," he concluded happily, leaning back in his chair and beaming at Shaftoe.

"How about _nobody at all_?" snarled Shaftoe. "Maybe I'll sleep out on deck --"

"Ah," interjected Jack, waggling a finger at Shaftoe. "But you said you preferred _me_ to _him_. Wossisname. Don Esteban."

"Did I? I don't think --"

"Aye: and you wouldn't want him to get the wrong idea, now, would you? I'm sure he wouldn't want to think of you roaming the _Black Pearl_ all night, giving up your prime berth in the captain's cabin, out of some misplaced fit of, hmmm ..." Jack tapped his forefinger against his lips, enjoying Shaftoe's impotent rage. "Jealousy," he decided. "You're jealous of the way he was looking at me."

How utterly fascinating: Shaftoe was flushed, all in an instant, and not with rum either.

"I'm _not_ \--"

"Ah, but he doesn't know that, does he?"

Jack Shaftoe's eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't," he said.

Jack smiled his sharpest smile. "Pirate," he said. "C'mon, let's get this lot cleared. I'm for my bed, and you've to sling your hammock." He gave Shaftoe a sly sideways look. "Unless ..."

"Don't even _think_ about it."

Jack had some difficulty in stowing the table -- the plates and glasses had been cleared away long ago, by a lingering, shamelessly eavesdropping Joe Henry -- what with having to swallow yet more laughter. Shaftoe was keeping as far from Jack as the cramped space permitted, and glowering at him, which would've been a shame if it weren't so damned funny. Jack did regret the evaporation of the entente between them: but now that he knew the wicked merriment that lurked in Jack Shaftoe's shimmery soul, he'd draw it out again somehow. Somehow.

* * *

Jack Shaftoe squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to listen to the sounds -- the theatric'ly _exaggerated_ sounds -- of Sparrow's disrobing: but it was no use, for he could not help remembering the sight of all that tanned, embellished skin and muscle. And since the morning's Science Experiment, and Sparrow's enthusiastic approbation thereof, Jack knew the _feel_ of that lithe, strong body too, embracing him in what had (surely, surely) been no more than a comradely embrace.

It did not bear thinking about, but he could not stop himself thinking of it. And it didn't help that his old comrade, the Imp of the Perverse -- resurrected, no doubt, by the evening's Spaniard-baiting -- was fizzily exhilarated by Sparrow's mere presence. Jack felt betrayed.

Sparrow's bedtime Opera -- sighs, grunts, the whisper of discarded clothing, the creak of his bunk, and the gradually-steadying breath as sleep claimed him. Jack sighed; then held his breath as Sparrow's breathing changed. But the pirate said nothing, and Jack exhaled.

It was not to be borne.

_But ain't he shiny and witty and pretty, my Jack?_ whispered the Imp.

Don't care, thought Jack mutinously. Women. Port Royal. Two days.

_Variety, Jackmyjack. Spice of life! Spicy nice!_

Jack thought hard about women. Darling Mary Dolores, six feet of statuesque Irish womanhood, the memory of her softened by distance and time, all yielding and curvy and shi--

No. Not shiny.

Mary Dolores, thought Jack firmly, lying stiffly still in the damned hammock. Red hair, sweet smile. Big tits (one aspect of pregnancy regarding which Jack had had no complaints). _Lovely_ girl, when she wasn't mad at him about something or other. Such a shame.

He held hard to the image of Mary Dolores as sleep, and rum, and sheer exhaustion drew him down.

 

 

There was a hand on his bare shoulder, a warm, broad hand, and Jack (half-waking reluctantly from a lingering dream of concupiscence) arched sleepily up into the delicious caress, _god it'd been so long since he'd touched anyone like this_ , smiling as --

Caress?!

Only Sparrow's hand -- undeniably warm, alive, _on_ him -- kept Jack from an ignominious fall as the realisation of where he was, and with _whom_ , burst upon him and contorted his whole body.

"Wha--" he managed, outraged, before the hand's twin descended on his mouth, covering it, and Jack Sparrow's mouth descended with infinite slowness (or so it seemed) to the level of Jack's ear.

Jack held his breath, waiting for something to happen. He could not help but notice that the hand on his shoulder had not moved: he could feel the length of each strong finger against his skin, hot as summer sun. Sparrow's hand smelt of rum, salt and indefinable Sparrow, and Jack fought back a ridiculous urge to taste it.

"Ssssh," hissed Sparrow, ever so quietly, next to Jack's ear. Jack phant'sied he could hear an undercurrent of laughter in the pirate's voice, muted though it was. "Listen," said Jack Sparrow, and nothing more.

After a moment's blank expectancy, Jack did as he was told: and faintly, faintly, through the black wood of the cabin-wall, he heard shouting, though he could not make out any word of it.

"Spanish," whispered Sparrow, lifting his hand from Jack's mouth. "C'mon."

And at once it was that simple. Jack rolled out of the hammock and out from under Jack Sparrow's hand, his dreams dispersed beyond recall.


	18. An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter Seventeen

  


He’d known Shaftoe a bare two days, not even that; and yet, as soon as he’d woken to those faded, angry sounds, to those rolling, lisping words filtered through wood and distance, he’d had but one thought; to go and find what it was that caused such a commotion, and to do it with Jack Shaftoe at his side.

Which was odd; and possibly some indicator of the depth of the regard that had flared in him, with scarce a day’s incubation, for his new companion. His companion, whose strong body had arched with thoughtless pleasure when Jack’s hand came down upon its sleeping shoulder; whose mouth had, all unknowing, spread to such a sweet wide smile, and then opened to show those sharp incisors, causing such a lurch in Jack’s guts that he’d had to cover it with his other hand, as much in self-defence as to caution silence. It’d made some sparkly swirl of near-hysteria shiver up his spine, to be so helplessly drawn in to the man’s physical presence even at a time like this, in the dead hours of the morning, with sounds of dispute echoing through his ship.

Woken, Shaftoe’s eyes went wide and instantly alert; he’d taken up his pistol and sword, not stopping to pull on his borrowed shirt, and waited momentarily, eyes carefully averted, as Jack’d donned breeches and taken up his own weapons.

“What d’you think it is?” he’d asked in a low voice, as the cries escalated, and now were joined by running feet.

“Nothin’ good,” muttered Jack, leaning in close on the pretext of keeping their speech quiet, breathing in warm skin-smell just for the joy of it. “Let’s go quiet, eh?” He opened the door slowly, peering out; but there was nothing to be seen in the passage, and the shouting seemed to’ve died away. No reason to relax vigilance, though.

They crept forward, till they came to the shadows at the foot of the aft companionway, and crouched low in the dark, listening. The hatch was open, as was usual, and voices floated down. That was Stone, Jack was sure; it was his watch; and Stone was saying, “You fuckin—” But it was cut short by a nasty wet thudding sound, a sound that made Jack wince; and then came a groan, and nothing more, until a murmur of Spanish, and then, rather loudly, the murmur was repeated. “Dije, iré abajo; para el capitán.”

Shaftoe’s shoulder, beside Jack, began to shake, but Jack, for once, didn’t see the funny side. “D’you know what ‘e said?” he hissed, nudging Shaftoe in the ribs.

“No,” whispered Shaftoe, his breath hot in Jack’s tingling ear, “but it must be pretty fucking frustrating, trying to secretly take over a ship when your leader's deaf as a doornail.”

Jack’s lips twitched; it was faintly amusing, but still, this was no time for laughter, and he thought Shaftoe was right on the money with his assessment of the Spaniards’ intentions; that interruption to Stone’s speech had brought it all crystal clear to him. Don Esteban might play the foolish fop, but he was clearly a ruthless man, and had wasted no time.

“Well, he said that someone’s coming down, looking for me,” he whispered back to Shaftoe, “and I’m not keen to be found, just yet. I want you to go up here, Jack; to go up, and… and distract them for a while, alright?”

“That’s stupid,” hissed Shaftoe, pressing close in the darkness, “we should both go up; we’ve a far better chance of taking them with two of us. No, better, let’s go and wake your men, surely we outnumber ‘em?”

“I don’t want a pitched battle on my ship, if I can help it, Mr Shaftoe; have you been in many of those, at sea?”

“Been in plenty on land,” muttered Shaftoe.

“Aye, well, aboard, it does more damage to a ship than you’d credit, a hundred odd armed men trying to kill one another. And the blood—well, it stains something wicked, why d’you think the deck’s black, eh?”

“But what are you going to do?”

Jack smiled into the darkness. “Ah, I’ve kept my eyes open, the last day or two; I’m a fast learner, me. Just… go and be distracting for a bit, eh? You’re good at that, I’d lay,” he added, thinking, _Oh, you’re better at that than you realise, Mr Shaftoe, you’re a veritable genius of distraction!_

Footsteps were approaching above them. “Go on!” Jack whispered, and he slid round behind Shaftoe, putting his free hand on the man’s muscled back, pushing him forward. “And, Jack?”

“What?”

“Have a care, and don’t do anything… stupid, eh?”

“I could ask the same of you,” said Jack Shaftoe; and then he strode, three steps at a time, up the narrow companionway, and Jack crept back into the shadows.

*

Distraction, eh? Distraction…

Jack briefly considered the idea of leaping up there, and running through the first Spaniard he saw with his sword, an approach which would, surely, be an attention-grabbing one. But the voice of Bob gabbled at him, in an irritatingly military-toned monologue (Bob having always been a natural soldier, he was worth listening to in some circumstances); _You’re too outnumbered for that approach_ , he could hear Bob musing. _You’ll just get killed early, to no avail._ (Jack had the distinct impression that if Bob could’ve seen some avail at the end of the _getting killed_ option, he might well have recommended it.) _Think about your other alternatives_ , Bob suggested. _What’s likely to draw his attention?_

_Oh, Bob, don’t go there_ , Jack thought, with a curl of his lip, but his brother did have a point. So, instead of lurching onto the deck with raised sword and overtly murderous intent, Jack slowed, and plastered a look of crafty excitement on his face; and when he emerged, and Carlos Montoya’s blade came sharp against his throat, he merely grinned at him, and whispered, “Oh, no, Carlos, no call for that; _amigo, soy amigo_!”

Carlos looked suspiciously behind Jack, and demanded to know where Sparrow was.

“Snoring,” said Jack dismissively. “Did you see how much that man _drank_?”

“Get up here,” said Montoya, without moving his blade, and he prodded Jack up towards the quarterdeck.

The moon was half full, but sufficient for Jack to see the Spaniards gathered at the helm; Stone lay limp on the black deck, and two dozen others of the _Pearl’s_ company were gagged and tied beside him. Bastards must’ve crept up on them as they slept. Espinosa stood behind de Halcones, staring out at the ship’s creamy moonlit wake; he turned when one of his men touched his arm, seeing Jack and Montoya approach, and his mouth curled up in a sardonic sneer.

“Mr Shaftoe! I did not think you would be… venturing from Captain Sparrow’s rooms tonight.”

“Ah, Don Esteban,” said Jack, loudly, “You have misread me! And you forget; I know you for a man of action! I could not imagine that you would lie sleeping in this evil-smelling vessel while the chance of a fortune slipped past your fingertips!” Jack could hear the Spanish intonations in his own voice, and the Imp giggled beside him, and hissed that he was laying it on a bit thick, but the Spaniard seemed to have no such qualms. He came over, and motioned to Montoya to lower his weapon; Jack inclined his head in thanks.

“What are you suggesting to me, Mr Shaftoe? You do see, do you not, what is occurring here?”

“Oh, I do,” assured Jack, and he glanced about, as if checking for spies, and then beckoned the Don closer. He leant in towards him, and murmured, “May I speak with you, Don Esteban? A… private matter?” And he shifted, just a little, so that his bare chest came into brief, warm contact with the other man.

The Spaniard pulled back, and looked hard at Jack, and he thought, for a moment, that he’d overplayed it; but then, that Look came into his eyes, and Jack was hard put not to roll his own back in his head. Honestly, did women find men this easy, all the time? No wonder they always got their own way. He dredged up other wiles from the past, and put his hand on Don Esteban’s waist, leading him to the side of the quarterdeck.

“It seemed to me,” said Espinosa, “that you were very… happy in your new acquaintance, no? Why now do you come to me?”

Jack looked at him with wide eyes, and then smiled, wide and sunny. “Why, my friend,” he said, and moved his hand from the other man’s side, placing it upon his own chest, where it seemed to draw Don Esteban’s eyes like some magnet. Jack, imp-ridden, stretched out his middle finger just a little, touching his nipple (peaky and sensitive with chill and thrill), and the Spaniard’s eye twitched. As low as he thought he could get away with, and still be heard, Jack muttered, “Who was it, d’you think, that suggested coming to your rescue, in the first place? I had a lot of… time to think, by myself on that island. Sometimes, it’s true, I can be a little… hasty, in my judgements.”

The Imp made gagging sounds beside him.

Don Esteban raised an eyebrow, and Jack nodded; Don Esteban put his own hand over Jack’s, and Jack set his teeth at the touch. “When this is over,” the Spaniard murmured, “I must find some way to… express my gratitude.”

“Super,” said Jack, thinking _Oh for fuck’s sake, Sparrow, if you’re going to do something, do get on with it_ ; and, as if by magic, a sudden ululation came from high above them at the front of the ship. They all swung round at the sound, and Jack ran down to the waist, Espinosa on his heels, searching for the source of it; and saw a bright, swaying light up on the foremast yardarm, illuminating the narrow bronze form of shirtless Jack Sparrow.

Espinosa shouted some instructions, and several of his men ran forward, some to stand guard at the top of the companionway (Jack could hear movement down below, as the rest of Jack’s men were woken by his call) and others towards the foremast; but Sparrow cried, “Tell them to stop, Espinosa, or I shall drop this lantern, and I tell you now—tell him, Jack!—that you do not, you really do NOT, want this lantern to fall!”

Jack’s eyes flew down, and saw what it was that Sparrow had positioned himself above; and he grabbed Espinosa’s arm, fiercely this time, and shouted, “Call them off! Stop them, right now!”


	19. An Alchemical Prescription, 18

  
  
Their faces, pale blurs in the light of the half-moon, were all upturned to him, and for an instant Jack Sparrow stood revelling with the sheer power of it: such power, he imagined, as an actor on a theatre-stage might feel, with the crowd bated on his words. It made him giddy. Or perhaps that was the etheric emanations of Enoch Root's three hundred percent profit, wafting and wavering up to him where he stood precarious on the yard-arm -- Jack essayed a dramatickal sway, which evoked gasps and dismay from his little audience -- above them all, holding aloft the innocent lanthorn which could blow his ship sky-high.

"No, mate, don't, don't try anything -- he'll do it, and you really don't want 'im to," Shaftoe was saying urgently and loudly, his hand on Don Esteban's arm.

"But your Captain Sparrow," pronounced Don Esteban, mouth twisting as he glowered at Jack, "he would perish too, no?"

"Blown to smithereens," Shaftoe assured him, spreading his arms wide to indicate the probable radius of the blast.

"It makes no sense!" protested that other chap, Montoya.

"Ah," Shaftoe confided, leaning close to the Spaniard but projecting his voice so that every man on the deck craned forward to listen. "Ah, but he's a mad bastard, Jack Sparrow is: ain't you heard the stories, mate?"

"I have heard of this Sparrow," said de Halcones, peering up at the yardarm as though the foul odours permeating the entire vessel emanated from Jack's own person. Jack grinned, and bowed, and let the lanthorn swing crazily. "He is, how you say? Mad as a hat-maker."

"Mad as a what?" said Shaftoe. "Oh, aye, mad as a hatter." He was standing next to Don Esteban, very close to the Spanish captain, and Jack was arrested by a sudden urge to hurl the bloody lanthorn -- or himself, perhaps -- down at the Don, who'd had his _hand_ (Jack'd seen it quite clear) on Jack Shaftoe's bare flesh.

"In England," Shaftoe was saying, "in the country, there's a thing called Jack o'Lantern, that lurks on dark roads."

Good old Shaftoe, though, playing along, distracting Don Esteban and his vulgar band of ruffians.

"I do not care for your English ghost stories, Mr Shaftoe," said Don Esteban thinly.

"No, no, 'course not," said Shaftoe hastily, turning so that he was looking straight into Don Esteban's dark eyes. (It had _better_ just be playing along, thought Jack darkly.) "My point is, this Jack o'Lantern had a habit of leading men astray."

And he and the Don exchanged complicit grins.

"You'll never take this ship, Don Esteban!" cried Jack, grimacing horridly, from the yardarm. "No, nor her captain either! The _Black Pearl_ is mine, d'you hear, and I hers, and so it'll be 'til we go down together! So just you call your Spanish hounds back to your heel, eh?"

"And _then_ what shall we do, Captain?" demanded Don Esteban, head back the better to dispense a sneer.

Which was a bloody good question, really: for Jack, leaping like a hare on the wind-scoured wood -- not quite the usual yardarm jig with which he'd been threatened many a time -- found the sheer thrill of the situation waning, and in its place a swiftly-blossoming rage. Where _was_ everyone? Why was Shaftoe lingering, meek as milk, beside Don Esteban, distracting _everyone_ (Jack included) instead of producing some alchemical sleight-of-hand? How long before Jack slipped, or his hand cramped, and all accidental sent his lovely ship and every soul upon her to -- what had Burton said, that first night, after Jack Shaftoe's attention-grabbing Introductory Piece -- to kingdom come?

* * *

Jack Shaftoe could not tear his eyes from mad Jack Sparrow, cavorting there above them: but he'd not survived this long without being continually alert to every detail of his environment, and his keen ear picked out the stealthy creep of the _Black Pearl_ 's crew on the gundeck below, moving for'ard away from the aft companionway where a couple of Don Esteban's men kept desultory watch. _They_ were well enough distracted by Sparrow's antics, and even Don Esteban (his hand still resting, unsettlingly, on Jack's bare shoulder, so hot and moist that Jack was hard-pressed not to flinch from it) seemed captivated by Sparrow's lean grace.

Which was all very well, but Sparrow wouldn't keep their attention all night, and half the _Pearl_ 's crew (mumbling and groaning now) were trussed up like poachers' trophies, and t'other half dithering about below-decks, no use to anyone and probably half-crazed with the malodorous fumes down there: and Jack here in the hands, _literally_ in the hands (he fought back another flinch), of the foe, unable to draw pistol or sword without, no doubt, a dozen garlic-scented Spanish sailors descending upon him like a ton of spoiled meat.

There was a creaking noise from the mainmast behind him, the sort of noise made by the stays of a ship under sail.

"What is it, in the barrel?" Don Esteban asked.

Jack spread his hands wide, edging out from Don Esteban's clammy hold. "Don't know the word for it, Captain," he said loudly. "But you saw what it did earlier." He flicked his gaze up at the empty rigging, at the pale half-moon beyond it, at the broad dark sky flecked with dark clouds. "Lucky it's not coming on to rain, really."

"Ah, you English: always so interested in the weather," said Don Esteban, chuckling. "So, Jack Shaftoe, how shall we tempt your Captain Sparrow down from his perch, eh?"

Jack thought of protesting that Jack Sparrow was in no wise _his_ ; but perhaps a tinge of manly jealousy would distract Don Esteban further. He shuffled his feet, and tried to look bashful, and murmured, "You'll get yours, matey, just you wait and see."

"Pardon?" said Don Esteban, raising his voice over the creak of the rigging.

"I _said_ , I'm terribly glad you came back for me," explained Jack, with his broadest smile. "You've no idea -- _no idea_ , I said -- what I've had to endure --"

"Jack Shaftoe!" yelled Sparrow from the yardarm, leaning recklessly out over the deck, so vehement that for a moment Jack feared he'd played his part too well. "You damned ingrate!"

"But he -- hey, what's that?" cried Jack, waving his arm wildly at a point somewhat above the yardarm where Sparrow swung insanely with his lethal light.

The oldest trick in the book, it was, and Jack would've been ashamed to be caught out by it: but perhaps things were different in Spain, for a good half of the rescued Spaniards turned to look. The moon slipped behind a fortuitous cloud, a cloud that Jack had been tracking anxiously as it slipped across the sky. There was a deeper cry from above and _behind_ them, up in the rigging of the mainmast: and as Don Esteban, mouth agape, turned to look, Jack kneed him smartly in the groin, ducked down and got an arm around his throat, and wrestled him back upright with a pistol at his temple.

The moon came out.

* * *

"You lot can just give it up, _give it up_ I said!" bellowed Bootstrap, running for'ard from the quarterdeck. Jack let himself sigh with relief, but he did not blink for a moment, intent on the play being put on for his sole benefit (or so it seemed) on the deck below.

Jack Shaftoe, his skin all pale and creamy in the moonlight, was half-strangling Don Esteban, and in his right hand was a primed pistol. Jack devoutly hoped he wouldn't fire it: but perhaps Don Esteban's brains would absorb any stray sparks and scraps of molten metal.

"There's a bloke with a crossbow up on the maintop behind you, mate," Shaftoe confided, loudly, to Don Esteban. "And he's a right old shot."

"He wouldn't --" began de Halcones disdainfully, turning to face the mainmast. There was a rather unpleasant sound -- Jack could hear it clearly, as Don Esteban's crew were rapt by their captain's predicament, and hardly breathed -- as a solid bolt of iron, perhaps six inches long and as thick as a man's finger, proved to de Halcones that, in fact, Burton _would_.

"An extra rum ration for you, Mr Burton!" cried Jack gleefully, swinging his lanthorn about in an excess of high spirits. On the deck, a couple of de Halcones' former shipmates bent over their officer's prone form: but there was nothing to be done.

"Carry on and blow us all up, Jack, why don't you?" called Shaftoe irritably, not relinquishing his grasp on Don Esteban, though the Spaniard was moaning and retching, and sagged against Shaftoe's arm. Jack's groin ached with sympathy for him: that knee'd been a nasty trick. "Unless you'd rather get this business sorted and we on our way?"

"Gentlemen!" said Sparrow, addressing the Spaniards. "Your captain's taken, and you're all as fine targets by moonlight as you were in the sunshine, when we saved you from the sea. A fine way you've thanked us!" He had been edging his way along the yardarm, which was beginning to seem a very perilous place, what with the guttering lanthorn and the dizziness that surely came from that devils' brew of Root's. Now he caught hold of the ratlines one-handed and slithered down to the safety of the deck.

Bootstrap had done well: a good score of the _Pearl_ 's crew had made their way silently for'ard and emerged, quick and deadly, from the fo'c'sle. Now they were moving amongst the Spaniards, disarming them and festooning them with whatever odds and ends of rope came to hand. Martingale had a big ugly knife pressed to the throat of young Carlos Montoya, who'd seemed so very charming at dinner: Bootstrap was standing to one side, pistol in one hand and sword in the other, overseeing the table-turning. And Jack Shaftoe, all lean and dangerous, had dragged his gagging captive over to the rail, and hauled him upright, and was pressed against him from waist to shoulder, bare chest pale against the Don's coat, with a knife at the Spaniard's jugular and a feral smile on his face.

The sharp chemical smell of the naphtha (or so he told himself) made Jack come over all faint.

"He's all yours, Captain Sparrow," called Shaftoe.

Jack spread his hands. "I don't want _him_."


	20. An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter Nineteen

  


“I don’t want _him_ ,” he’d said; no, not a needling “ _I_ don’t want ‘im,” or an argumentative "I _don't_ want him," or a dismissive “I don’t _want_ him;” none of those.

It registered, in a vague way, in Jack’s fizzing head; but he was so very enjoyably _angry_ still, and it was strangely hard to keep the right pressure on his blade, fiery sharp against Espinosa’s throat. Oh, it was a terrible urge that swelled over him; he was prickly with bloodlust, heart thumping with the shock of de Halcones’ sudden death, with the delirious joy of having violently knee’d Espinosa in the balls, with the thrill of watching Jack Sparrow’s mad theatricks, with the heat of victory, and his hand trembled, the Imp slavered; blood, yes, he really wouldn’t mind a little blood.

But the fucking Spaniard was smiling; was muttering to Jack, “Your desires betray you, Englishman;” was, incredibly, pushing his hips against Jack’s. And Jack realised, to his dismay, that the bloodrush was not confined to his head, nor to his knife-hand, but was coursing through his entire body, and he was pushing hard (and _hard_ ) against the warm body of the loathsome Espinosa.

“It’s the thought of being rid of you, you filthsome creature,” he spat back, but got nothing bar a sneering smile in return. His hand twitched, and his prisoner flinched, and a dark well of blood appeared beneath his blade.

“Have a care, Mr Shaftoe,” came the dark voice of Jack Sparrow, behind him. “I don’t hold with unnecessary murthering.”

“What about _him_?” argued Jack, nodding towards the sprawled corpse of de Halcones; as if on cue, Burton and Stone (after retrieving their crossbow bolt, and removing his weapons and shoes, his gold earrings—Jack winced at their rapid and practical methodology—and a rather nice silver ring) grabbed him at either end, and heaved him overboard with a loud splash.

“I said, _unnecessary_ ,” said Sparrow blithely. “I think we’d all agree that Mr Burton’s actions were the best course, under the circumstances. Question is, what’ll we do with this lot now, eh? No sooner rescued ‘em, than have to do away with ‘em again. Ironic, that is.”

“Do to them as they did to me,” said Jack bitterly, conveniently forgetting that he’d actively chosen marooning in preference to Espinosa’s more personal attentions.

“Fair enough, fair enough,” said Sparrow. “’Tis generally my tendency to be lenient, but I think you’ve a point. Mr Turner—oh, and have I said, _well done_ , Mr Turner? Lads? It was a most admirable intervention—would you care to take these gentlemen to the brig?”

“Jack,” said Bootstrap, his eyes taking on an uncharacteristically wicked glint, “those barrels are right next to the brig, you know. The stench down there is something else.”

“Oh, dear,” said Sparrow, with a bright smile. “I fear you may get the most dreadful headache, Don Esteban.”

Jack, his arousal thankfully diminished by some heavily concentrated thoughts of ripping earrings out of still warm but very dead earlobes, and old naked people, and Bob, and any other natural detumescents he could come up with, took a step back from Espinosa, though he did not remove his knife from under the man’s jaw.

“Such a pity, Don Esteban,” he said, “that things worked out this way. You know, I was rather hoping…” and he gave a sly smile, and slid his broad hand down the Spaniard’s chest, and up under his coat.

Espinosa’s face came over all confused and scowly, and Sparrow swallowed a strangled noise behind him. Jack, unthinkingly delighted with this reaction, paused for a moment, closed his eyes, smiled and sighed, then shook his head as if to bring himself out of some reverie. “Ah, yes,” he said, “I was rather hoping… that you would’ve brought this with you.”

And he pulled his hand from the Spaniard’s coat, flourishing his precious map.

“What d’you reckon, Jack? Is it worth our while?” he said.

“Oh, I’d say so,” said Jack Sparrow, and he reached out to take it, his fingers closing warmly over Jack’s, and Jack liked the feeling of camaraderie, of being part of this _team_ , that they gave him. It was not at all like the humidly lascivious touch of Don Esteban. Oh, not at all.

*

The Spaniards were quiescent now, in the dark and wicked fug of the brig; too busy trying to get enough oxygen, Jack thought, to make trouble. There was scarce an hour left of the night; soon it would begin to pale, and they should sleep, really they should. But Jack could not sleep; not with all the excitement still bubbling in his blood. Not with Jack Shaftoe in the hammock beside him, talking still, his big hands animated, his croaky London drawl full of smile and thrill.

“Did you have any plan, any real plan?” Shaftoe was demanding. “Was that a signal, to Turner? That noise you made?”

“Nah, not really,” admitted Jack. “It woke him up, but.”

“Good man, that.”

“Aye, good man,” said Jack, and he turned on his side, so that he could see the faint dim outline of Jack Shaftoe, illuminated only by fading moonlight as he spoke. “I’d say the same of you,” he added. “You were, indeed, most… distracting.”

Shaftoe laughed, his belly tightening, and Jack shivered at the glimpse of lean, delineated muscle. “He was a pushover, old Don Esteban. Would’ve rolled over for anything in trousers.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Jack, vaguely. “Fellow like that, obviously gets around; I’d say he’s probably rather discerning. Makes it all the cleverer, fooling him like you did.”

“It does?” said Shaftoe, pleased at the compliment, but suspicious of it nonetheless.

“Oh, aye,” said Jack. “You know what you’re about, you do.”

“No I don’t,” said Shaftoe, shortly.

“I think you do,” Jack persisted. “I think you knew _exactly_ what you were doing. I think you’re a natural, you are.”

“A natural what, exactly?” demanded Jack Shaftoe, rising to the bait, and he glared at Jack in the darkness, his eyes glinting. Jack’s gut lurched, and he wanted to say, _a natural harlot, a natural tease, a natural lover, the natural other half of **me**_ , but he did not. Instead he was quiet for a moment, and then he said: “Are you so very sure, Jack?”

“Of?” said Shaftoe, after a loaded pause.

“That it ain’t ever going to be to your taste. I mean to say, I understand the issue of _Don Esteban_ , truly I do, but…” And Jack swung his legs over the side of his cot, sitting up, leaning forward, leaning towards warm and yeasty Jack Shaftoe, who stiffened at the sudden motion. Jack licked his lips, his heart pounding in warning, but could not help himself. Better to lose him than… than not to know.

“Ain’t there anyone, Jack, that… makes you think different?”

“Any,” said Jack Shaftoe, with a crack in his voice, “any _man_ , you mean?”

“Aye,” said Jack, soft and careful, and he leaned forward the more, desperate to see Shaftoe’s moonlit expression. “Any man?”

*

It wasn’t fair, not after the wild day of threat and explosion, and a dizzyingly sleepless night, and all that rum, and with Sparrow having made Jack act up to Espinosa like some shameless doxy (Jack told himself, conveniently rewriting history to his own ends); all those things, they all confused him. And add to that the heady proximity of half-naked Jack Sparrow, with his open lips, and warm breath; and the memory of waking to that hot summery hand on his skin, in tandem with the sweetness of his dream; and oh, more, the memory of a hard, lithe embrace, and eyes filled with laughter and wickedness and friendship. Was it any wonder that the Imp of the Perverse was so very swept away, chittering in excitement, and bouncing off the dark walls of this cabin, and begging, pleading, imploring Jack to do something foolish?

“I didn’t enjoy that, you know,” Jack stuttered. “That poxy Spaniard; he turns my stomach.”

“Aye, aye, I know it.” _But, do I?_

“Putting his hands all over me, Jaysus.” But the Imp pushed memories of other hands into Jack’s mind; his own touch on his chest, there in front of ‘em all; Jack Sparrow’s hand on his shoulder, again, again, it shivered through his head.

And as if he could read Jack’s mind, Sparrow reached out, slowly, his head tilted to one side, his face unreadable in the shadows, and gave it to him again; gave him that hot, dry, sparking touch over the curving muscle of his arm.

“And this hand?” whispered Jack Sparrow, strange, mad, funny, clever Jack Sparrow with his black black eyes and his curly smile and his strong arms. But Jack said nothing, could say nothing; and Sparrow whispered again, an edge of something in his voice, “It ain’t the same thing, Jack. You know it ain’t.”

And Jack lay still, and oddly speechless; for it wasn’t the same, oh no, not at all. And he knew he should be reacting; should be annoyed, should shake that hand off, and proclaim Sparrow’s brotherhood to Don Esteban de Espinosa; but the Imp had clamped a small sulfurous hand over his mouth, and no words came. All that came was sweet, shimmery confusion; and a twitch in his own fingers; and a twist of heat, deep in his belly.


	21. An Alchemical Prescription,  20

  
  
It was just after dawn, and the sky -- still mottled with cumulus -- was pearly pink. The wind had veered round from the East towards the South, and with it came the scent of green growing things, faintly discernible through the eye-watering emanations of bloody Enoch Root's supremely profitable cargo. Jack eyed the scudding clouds balefully, and glanced up at the black sweep of canvas that thrummed and creaked above the _Pearl_ 's black deck.

"Should make it to Port Royal by nightfall, captain, if we hold this course," said Bootstrap cheerily, coming up to stand beside Jack at the helm. He'd changed his shirt, perhaps in anticipation of landfall: the ghastly yellow had been replaced by a lurid confection of green and blue. It made Jack's stomach roil.

"You maybe better turn in for another couple of hours, Jack," said Bill, noting his captain's sour look. "Up half the night with them bloody Spaniards: though I'll bet old Don Esteban's laughing on the other side of his face now, ha ha!"

"Sooner we're rid of him, the better," growled Jack, chusing not to acknowledge his First Mate's well-meant -- if coddlesome -- advice.

"And that devil's brew we're carrying," said Bootstrap, casting about for some inroad to Jack's state of mind. "Can't be rid of _that_ muck too quick, eh?"

Jack made a non-committal noise.

"What'll you do with 'em all, then? Don Esteban and his crew?" enquired Bill.

"Mr Shaftoe," said Jack grimly, eyes fixed on the horizon, "suggested that we do unto them as they did unto him, and let 'em out at some little spit of land."

"Grand idea," said Bill. "And what're Mr Shaftoe's plans, eh, Jack? Will he be staying on, after Port Royal? Because --"

"I very much doubt it," said Jack icily, glaring north as though (Bill thought) he were trying to raise Port Royal from beneath the horizon by sheer force of will.

Bootstrap looked at the set of Jack Sparrow's shoulders, the severe line of his mouth, the way the skin of his hands stretched across his knuckles as he gripped the helm, and deduced that Sparrow was not in the mood for conversation.

"I'll get the riggers up," he said, turning to go.

"Oh: and, Mr Turner?" said Jack, still intent on the featureless sea.

"Aye?" said Bill warily.

"I think we may have a trifle too much canvas aloft. Wouldn't want to strain her, eh?"

"But the _Black Pearl_ 's the fastest --" began Bill, confused.

"Let us make haste _slowly_ , Mr Turner," said Jack Sparrow, bestowing a humourless grin upon his First Mate.

* * *

Jack had dozed for a couple of hours in a wholesomely fresh corner of the deck, curled up on a folded square of sailcloth, but he ached as much as if he'd paced the deck all night. Not that there had been much night left, by the time they'd turned in again.

Probably a good thing it'd already been getting light.

It'd been monstrously unfair of Sparrow to spring such a trick on him. In league with the bloody Imp, he was, making Jack want what he didn't want, making him think of things he didn't care to think about. Making him ask questions -- answer questions --

Well. Enough of that. Jack leant on the rail, staring out over the morning sea and trying to reckon how far they'd come. Port Royal in two days: maybe even today, with the way the wind'd freshened and veered, as though the world were conspiring to lead Jack out of temptation, deliver him from ... well, not exactly _evil_ , really: just Jack Sparrow, with his mouth and his eyes and his hand. (Jack, exhausted from rum and adrenaline and sleeplessness, was no longer capable of attaching meanings, or emotions, or even descriptions to any of these things.)

Oh, Jack Sparrow's hand, its outline still branded indelibly (though invisibly) on Jack's skin. And whenever he thought of that hand, his eyes were irresistibly drawn to its owner, who stood straight at the helm, intent on the _Pearl_ 's course (can't wait to be rid of me, thought Jack bitterly), an impossible set of contradictions and frustrations all wrapped up in one lithe, hot-blooded package.

"Mr Shaftoe!" 'Twas Bill Turner, in a shirt more offensive than the yellow object he'd worn before, coming up to stand next to Jack. How fortuitous! Perhaps Sparrow had sent him. "Port Royal by dusk, if the wind holds!"

"Grand," said Jack, or rather Jack's mouth.

"I hear you're leaving us," said Bill amiably.

Jack blinked, and something churned in his gut: but that was probably the last of the rum, or the effects of having been awake for a whole day. "Mmm," he said.

"I should tell you, mate," confided Bill, leaning close. "If you've turned Jack Sparrow against you, you're better off out of it. He knows how to carry a grudge, does Jack."

For a moment, Jack contemplated telling Bill about everything that had happened, everything that'd mattered: that searing, sinewy embrace, and the feel of matched strength, and the friendship and laughter and sheer wickedness; the way Jack Sparrow had put his hand on Jack's bare skin, and asked him if it was the same; the way it hadn't been.

But then he'd have to admit that he'd fled that warm touch, and those wicked words, and his own self. (Fled and not been _followed_ , more to the point.) Fled to the dubious safety of the deck: fled -- and Jack knew he'd have to think about this, sooner or later -- because he'd wanted to, well, to _stay_.

Put together like that, it seemed churlish and ill-mannered, and anyway none of Bootstrap's business; and besides, Jack had no words for it all yet. So instead he said, "I'm sorry for it: but, y'know ..." and let his spread hands and guileless bemusement speak for him.

"Well," said Bill briskly. "We'll be in Port Royal soon enough: though what we're to do with Don Esteban, I don't know."

"Marooning, I thought," said Jack, grasping at the distraction.

"Aye: but there's little enough land, even of the _occasional_ sort," said Bootstrap, winking, "'tween here and there."

"They can swim, can't they?" said Jack, grinning.

* * *

By late afternoon, the mountains of Jamaica were blue on the northern horizon, and there was a feeble hubbub rising from the brig, where those of Don Esteban's crew who had not been rendered queasily quiet by cargo-fumes, having somehow discovered the _Black Pearl_ 's proximity to dry land, were demanding to be set down upon it.

"What'll we do with 'em, Jack?" said Bootstrap once more, hovering.

Jack had been at the helm all day, not trusting his darling ship to any other hand. Her progress had been rather more sedate than was usual, though Jack'd been terribly keen on trimming the rig just 'xactly so. The winds had been horribly favourable, though, and Jack could no longer pretend, even to himself, even squinting at the horizon through a single sleep-bleared eye, that the _Black Pearl_ would not reach Port Royal before the last of the light was gone.

This realisation put Jack in an uncharacteristically foul temper, and Bootstrap's blithe enquiry did not help: the wind (unseasonal and unpredicted) had carried them clear to Jamaica, but the course he'd _planned_ , besides being rather more leisurely, would've taken the _Pearl_ \-- with her noisome cargo and her treacherous guests -- past any number of little sandbars, shoals and guano'd rocks. As it was, Don Esteban would be lucky to end up half a mile offshore. Still, there were sharks.

"Captain?" said Bill, all anxious.

Jack rolled his eyes. "Mr Turner," he said. "You do remember how we earn our living, eh?"

"We're pirates," said Bootstrap, bemused.

"Aye," said Jack, sighing a dramatickal sigh. "So what do we do with prisoners?"

"We _ransom_ 'em!" announced Bootstrap, after a few wrong guesses.

"Exactly!" said Jack, beaming, though the smile felt skewed. "Now, how're Don Esteban and his charming friends worth most to us, eh? Stashed on a sandbar somewhere, ready to tell unflattering tales of us all? Or ..."

"Off to see their wealthy friends in Port Royal!" said Bootstrap, grinning. His smile faded. "But what if they don't _have_ wealthy friends, Jack?"

Jack cocked his head, considering. "Well," he said, "we could do with a hand, unloading."

_ one more chapter to come, tomorrow ... _   



	22. An Alchemical Prescription,  21

Merry Christmas to you all!  
Jack'd wanted to lay off Port Royal until the morning, but Bootstrap seemed to think that the lads had all sorts of pressing errands ashore: at any rate, he was extremely persuasive, without ever quite mentioning the word 'mutiny'. And from somewhere -- Jack had not been looking for him, but oh, it was like an ache, not having him in sight -- Jack Shaftoe appeared, quiet and shifty, not quite meeting Jack's gaze but often to be caught in the act of looking away from him. And under such scrutiny -- not only Shaftoe's, but the fixed wide eyes of the _Pearl_ 's company -- what could any decent pirate do save take his ship into safe harbour?

By the time the light faded, the _Black Pearl_ was moored fore and aft in the lee of the eastern bluff -- "too late to be unloading tonight, lads" -- and already there was a concerted rush to the jolly-boats. Jack wanted to rush too, and God rot the Spaniards in the brig, the three hundred per cent profit, the skeleton watch: but there were things he wanted more.

"Mr Shaftoe," he said loudly, for the benefit of all observers. "A word in private before you go?"

And Jack Shaftoe, heading briskly towards the rail with his oilskin bag over his shoulder and his borrowed clothes, swung round as though he'd been expecting some arrest, and gave Jack a carefully blank look: but he said nothing, and followed Jack biddably back to the cabin they had shared.

"So you'll be leaving us, Mr Shaftoe?" said Jack without preamble, once the door was shut.

"...Aye," said Shaftoe vaguely, apparently fascinated by the grain of the beams.

"Running away?" snapped Jack. "What are you afraid of, eh?"

At last, at last, Jack Shaftoe was looking him straight in the eye. Jack stared back, half-hypnotised by the dizzying blue of Shaftoe's gaze.

"I'm not afraid of _you_ ," said Shaftoe. Was that the hint of a smile? Oh, _please_ , thought Jack. Please don't go like this. Please don't --

He collected himself.

"'fraid of yourself, then, eh? You --"

And then, oh Christ and all the saints, Jack Shaftoe was pinning him up against the battered wood of the cabin door, the whole warm muscular length of his body pressed against Jack's, and then his mouth, his mouth ...

* * *

He could not stand one more word from Jack Sparrow's wicked, tempting mouth; not one more taunting, challenging, provocative word. Lies, all lies: for there was nothing of fear in Jack any more, nothing of that queasy roiling that had assailed him on deck all day, each time his gaze was drawn to Jack Sparrow as though he were truly a Jack o'Lantern, leading poor Jack Shaftoe from the path of righteousness. Leading him astray.

It wasn't as if Jack had ever had much time for righteousness anyway. And p'rhaps, just p'rhaps, there were interesting sights to be seen, away from the path.

Until he touched Sparrow, Jack had thought it was all rage that he felt: rage at being made to feel this way, rage at whatever chicanery Sparrow had performed to beguile him thus. Surely it couldn't be _entirely_ the Imp's doing? There was never any use in raging at the Imp, Jack knew, and those Impulses usually came out well enough in the end: but every time he'd looked at Sparrow, he'd found himself grinding his teeth, clenching his fists, tensing every muscle in his body as though he was about to fight off Don Esteban and his vile crew all over again.

He'd thought it was rage, even as his mouth came down -- he did not know what else to _do_ \-- upon Sparrow's, even when he felt the heat of Jack Sparrow's body as he pinned and pressed it against the dark grainy wood. But oh, what surprising sweetness, and delight, and light, and a want for which Jack had no words. Not that he could have spoken: not that he could, for the moment, remove his mouth from Sparrow's, or withdraw as Sparrow's tongue, terrifyingly wondrously eager, insinuated itself between his lips and began to explore every tingling corner of Jack's mouth. And the kiss went on, and on, until Jack wondered if it would ever end.

"You're going, then," said Sparrow thickly, pulling his mouth a scant inch back from Jack's, breathing hard. Jack leaned unthinkingly closer, to feel the rise of Sparrow's lungs as he sucked in air.

"I'm going," agreed Jack. He moved one hand to Sparrow's shoulder, feeling bold as anything, hanging onto Sparrow. Sparrow's hands, lovely and warm and deft, were exploring the muscles of Jack's back, and it felt surprisingly good.

Tilting his head back he could just about see Sparrow's dark, dark eyes; but the pirate's gaze was as impenetrable as ever. Jack wanted to kiss him again: no, he wanted something different, but had no idea what that might be. He waited impatiently for Sparrow to give it to him, but Jack Sparrow just stood there, not struggling, pressed hard (oh!) against Jack, all warm and strange and _interesting_.

"Can't I persuade you to stay?" murmured Sparrow, against Jack's throat. Jack shivered at the feel of his hot breath, and felt Sparrow's body take up and echo that shiver. And, oh, oh Christ, the shivery swipe of Jack Sparrow's wicked tongue (Jack wanted it back) across Jack's jugular vein, hot and cold and infinitely distracting.

"I ..." began Jack, with no clear idea of how the sentence might end: and from the stairway outside came the sound of running feet. A hand rapped deafeningly on the black wood beside Jack Sparrow's head, and from outside the cabin Bill's voice came.

"The last boat's going, Jack: come on, if you're coming!"

Bill's steps receded: and now, as Jack listened, he could hear a silence creep over the ship, a silence of empty hammocks and abandoned decks, broken only by a shrill, distant Spanish complaint concerning la calidad de la comodidad.

"Tell me truly that you want to leave," demanded Sparrow, his hands broad and scorching through Jack's thin borrowed shirt. "Tell me that, and I'll let you go."

Jack wanted -- oh, he didn't know what he wanted, out of all the mess of 'should' and 'must' and 'want' and 'never' that was making him giddy: but whatever it was, he was increasingly sure that Sparrow could give it to him. But this talk of being let go (and its implicit inverse, being _made to stay_ ) rang bells in Jack's head, of the sort that oft heralded imprisonment, legal action, entrapment or other manner of Trouble; and besides, besides ...

"I'm going, Jack," he said, drawing back a little from their embrace. Mistake, that, for now he could see the look on Jack Sparrow's face, and he wanted more of it, more of that mouth that'd turned out so kissable: more of that flattering Look, directed at himself.

But it faded, and became a more nearly presentable smirk: and Jack Sparrow said, "Then go, Jack Shaftoe."

Jack hesitated, eyeing Sparrow uncertainly, for it seemed too simple. And Sparrow, turning to open the door for him, said, "You'll always be wondering, mate": and winked.


	23. An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter 22

  
_She's baaaack... Sorry in advance for apparent randomness of forthcoming chapter. Have ignored beautifully laid plot plans and gone off on own, smut-laden tangent. Let us consider it an interlude. I promise the story proper will reappear, when my non-holiday brain has re-engaged. Meanwhile..._

_You’ll always be wondering, mate! Always be wondering!_

If, for one blessed minute of this cursed day, those words had happened to depart his conscious thoughts, then the virulently irritated Imp of the Perverse—enraged at Jack Shaftoe’s sudden _sensibility_ and loathsomely level-headed _determination_ — had caroled them squawkily back into it, with a vicious sing-song edge to ‘em that was driving Jack to distraction. Struggling to displace their skipping, circular progress around his head, Jack had made himself a list, a very simple list, a list with no more than three things upon it, and those three things he was doggedly working his way through, and doing a rather admirable job of it (in his opinion) under the circumstances.

Item the First: Passage Out. Actually, as it transpired, passage _home_ ; but at the time he stumbled from Jack Sparrow’s cabin, refusing to look at the man, his vitals churning and burning in his belly, he’d been seeking escape only, and had been entirely open as to destination. As luck would have it, he’d no sooner splashed out of the _Pearl_ ’s cutter than he stumbled across some of the boys from the _Dolphin_ , the ship that’d brought himself and Enoch Root to this wretched place to begin with, and turned out they were several hands short, and leaving on the morrow; without Enoch’s purse, Jack could not offer to pay his way, but would work it, and that suited the _Dolphin_ ’s master down to the ground.

Having sorted that little matter, Jack could now approach the second item on his agenda, viz.: Strong Drink; which, given his financial situation, was marginally more problematic, but two of his new shipmates, celebrating their final night ashore before the long Atlantic haul, were generous enough to stand him a couple. And, once they were a few mugs down, Jack dredged some old and not particularly admirable card tricks from the back of his mind, and embarked upon a ‘lucky streak’ that soon had him buying them drinks in return, albeit with coin still warm from their own pockets. But Smith and Wells were easy-going fellows to begin with, and half-drunk by that point, and didn’t seem to hold it against him.

So, with several shillings now to his name, Jack was in a position to tackle Item the Third: a Girl of Flexible Morality, of which there were no shortage in Port Royal in general, and this tavern in particular.

Yes, definitely, a Girl; a warm and wriggly, soft and giggly, sweet and gaspy Girl, that was all that was required to set the world back to rights, and shut that damned Imp’s gap-toothed little mouth, stop the hot hiss of its breath in Jack’s ear. And so he ran his fingers through his hair to lessen his dishevelment, and put on his widest, sweetest smile, and winked his way into the good graces of a sweetly plump lapful of blonde femininity, who accepted his offer of drink (only three shillings left, now) and sat squirming pleasantly on his knee, seemingly in no rush to complete the transaction.

“Damnation, Shaftoe!” muttered Wells, grizzled and missing two fingers. “First you take my coin, and then you make me watch this lovely creature favour your worthless self with her comp’ny. Come on, Nettie, surely you’d give a cut-price to a well-established customer like me? Eh?”

Nettie, though, was rather taken with her current customer, and shook her head, teasingly. “You find my fee, and you’ll find me, darlin’!” she cried, and added, “’Sides which, poor Mr Shaftoe’s been marooned and everythin’; he’s had the very worst time of it, ain’t you, Jack-my-love? Don’t you deserve a little sweetness, now?”

“Oh yes, I do,” agreed Jack fervently, and tried to muster some more enthusiasm for her impressively milky breasts and the way they threatened to burst from the dangerously low neckline of her dress. And he was becoming more enthused by the moment, really he was, particularly as she leant over and planted a smacking kiss on his ear; but then he happened to hear a snatch of conversation from behind, one which featured his own name, and he craned, scowling, to see who it might be that would dare say that _Jack Shaftoe, he was a cunning one, but he couldn’t take the pace of it, I’d say, and now he’s up an’ run_ ; which, God's teeth! was not the case at all; and there, across the tavern, he saw several of the _Black Pearl_ ’s men, including Burton and Cooper. Burton and Cooper, pressed up tight beside one another on the settle, and Burton’s big arm was over Cooper’s shoulders, Cooper’s hand sitting on the other’s thigh.

_I bloody knew it_ , thought Jack, and he scowled, and glared at this further evidence of piratical depravity. He was pleased to be backed up in this assessment by Smith, who’d followed his glance, and was narrowing his eyes at the sight.

“Fuckin’ pirates,” Smith muttered. “Fuckin’ disgusting. You better not be that way, Shaftoe, not aboard the _Dolphin_.”

“No fear,” said Jack, frowning mightily to cover the rising flush that threatened his cheeks as the Imp stage-whispered at him again, and poked a tiny phantasmal hand into Jack’s skull, pulling out a memory of a hot, muscled embrace, a mocking mouth, a burning kiss, a hard body moving under the pressure of his own.

Nettie rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t you be like that, gentlemen; they’re good boys, so they are, and good customers an’ all.”

Jack was confused. “ _Your_ customers, princess? How’s that, then?”

Nettie giggled, and wriggled, and (astonishingly, given her profession) blushed; “Sometimes,” she murmured, into Jack’s ear, “them two likes to ‘ave a girl wiv ‘em, too.”

“That’s disgusting,” said Jack, stoutly, channeling Bob.

“Oh, no, it ain’t,” whispered Nettie. “It’s _lovely_ , Jack.”

“It’s unnatural,” said Jack, loudly, for the benefit of his new sailing companions.

Nettie drew back from him, and raised an eyebrow; and then, without taking her eyes from his, she called out (rather piercingly), “Nat! Where are you, Nat-my-love?”

A tall, thin girl appeared behind her; a girl whose pretty, big-eyed face helped to compensate for her lack of other womanly curves. “”Ere,” she said, in a French lilt; “I’m right ‘ere, _ma p’tite ange_ ; ‘oo are your friends?”

“This ere’s Mr Shaftoe,” said Nettie, “and Mr Wells, and Mr Smith; and gents, this is my dear friend Nathalie.” She rose from Jack’s lap, and put her arm around the other girl’s thin waist. Nathalie glanced down at her, and smiled a small, secretive smile.

“See, Mr Shaftoe,” said Nettie, “I bet you don’t think _this_ is disgusting, now do you?”

“What?” said Jack, his lap feeling very empty and cold all of a sudden.

“This,” said the little blonde thing, and ran her small hand over the pale skin of Nathalie’s shoulder, and up her neck, and her cheek; and she slipped a finger between the French girl’s lips, and grinned. Nathalie’s eyes danced; it seemed to be a practiced routine between them, and Jack felt a warmth in his belly to see it; p’rhaps his shillings would stretch…? Nathalie bent her head, and opened her mouth, and Nettie replaced her finger with a delicate swipe of tongue; Nathalie gave a little sigh, and the two girls kissed, a flush rising on Nathalie’s white throat, and Jack’s heart (and several other parts) thumped most enjoyably. Wells and Smith sat silent and slack-jawed.

Nettie shivered and hummed into the kiss, and then broke it off, and said, “See? Sweet as honey, ain’t it?”

Jack, faced with his own blatant hypocrisy swelling thickly in his borrowed breeches (oh, and who were they borrowed from, eh, who from?) could not dispute it.

Nettie resumed her place on his lap, squeezing Nathalie’s hand in hers. “And it’s just the same,” she whispered, “when I look at them two boys; so don’t you tell me I’m disgusting, Mr Shaftoe, or I won’t want to be nice to you, now will I?”

“Perhaps,” said Jack, shooting out a quick hand and grabbing Nathalie’s thin wrist as she turned to leave, “you’d both like to be nice to me, eh?”

Nathalie glanced doubtfully at the pile of coin before him on the table, and shook her dark head, smiling. “Not enough,” she said. “You need more.”

“Don’t look at me, I ain’t playing cards again to bankroll you,” put in Smith, reading Jack’s mind.

“Sorry, ladies, it’s all I have,” said Jack, trying to negotiate instead with his best, most winning smile; and from the look that Nettie shot to her friend, he thought he might have convinced her; but Nathalie’s lips curved up without the smile ever reaching her eyes, and she said, “One only, m’sieur. Your choice!”

Had you asked his opinion of this choice in advance to its actual presentation, Jack would’ve thought it obvious; of course he’d choose the one in his lap, the curvy giggly soft one; but suddenly he looked at the narrow bones of the other girl, her wider shoulders, her flat chest, with new eyes; she would be only an inch or two shorter than he, and her dark eyes were liquid, and her hair was almost as black as—

Oh, Lord. Now his own desires were conspiring, with the Imp, against him; how could any man resist the combined onslaught of a metaphysical companion who could nag like a fishwife, and warm, salty, gleamy and grinning Jack Sparrow, _and_ (as if that didn’t suffice!) his own traitorous corpus? And why, in any logical world, could he shudder with wicked pleasure to watch these two pretty girls kiss one another, and yet disclaim acceptance of the self same thing, in his own sex?

Jack did not know whether to laugh or cry with frustration, so he drank instead; and the two girls waited, one uncaring, the other pouting, for his answer while he drained his mug; and the Imp writhed gleefully at his indecision, and whispered his little mantra, again and again; _You’ll always be wondering, mate!_  



	24. An Alchemical Prescription,  23

  
  
Between the pervasive, eye-watering reek of naphtha, and the persistent (though muffled) complaints of his guests, Captain Jack Sparrow could not have been said to be enjoying a peaceful night's sleep. The rum he'd consumed in pursuit of that sleep might have been responsible for the ... _salacious_ dream from which he'd just been rudely jolted awake by some phant'sied sound: but then again, it might not. Jack might've had only his own fertile imagination, fuelled by the memory of Jack Shaftoe, growling, assaulting his captain in the most delicious of ways -- and yet _not_ , for though that kiss had been sweet, and all the sweeter for the utter unexpectedness of it, and the bemusement on Shaftoe's face as he'd held onto Jack, there had been (in Jack's considered opinion) ever so much further that it could've gone before its zenith of deliciousness had been achieved.

For one thing, it could have continued for rather longer than it had done: Shaftoe could've swooped back in and recaptured Jack's mouth (Jack quite content to let him, for the kiss itself was good fortune indeed and he'd had no intention of compromising it by taking the initiative and thus, perhaps, scaring Shaftoe away) and kissed him again, deeper, more insistent, more demanding. Or he could've responded to Jack's caresses (and Jack was almost certain that he'd felt an _impressive_ measure of response in the hard body pressing against his own) and writhed slowly against Jack, letting his hands roam freely and arching into Jack's touch: groaning, yes, that would've been delicious too.

Jack Sparrow wasn't sure quite how he'd have persuaded Shaftoe out of his clothes, and into Jack's bunk: but he was Jack Sparrow, and he'd a long history of persuading others to the most improbable actions. And then, once Shaftoe was naked against him (Jack sighed, long and loud, into his pillow) and all that covetable heat and strength and hardness was pressed against Jack's own body ... why, _then_ Jack would show him just how delightful all this unnaturalness, this _perversion_ , could be if one put one's mind to it.

Jack applied himself to these unnatural thoughts, with the inevitable (and astonishingly intense) result: and only when he was wiping his belly and his hand clean, scowling into the shadows of his dark cabin, did it occur to him that Jack Shaftoe, safely ashore and out of his reach, was probably _at this very moment_ buried deep in some dockside doxie, pounding away at her as though he could drive out of himself his own memory of that sweet shared kiss. Which, Jack'd lay, he had not yet achieved: for the confused desperation in Shaftoe's eyes, alone here with Jack in those last few moments, had spoken volumes. Fascinating, yet incomplete, volumes.

And Jack hated unfinished stories.

If he ... but there was that sound again, the sound that'd woken him so vexingly from his concupiscent dream: the splash of water on wood; the sound of a boat, approaching. Too soon by far for the shore-leave watch to return; too late at night for any legitimate visitor; and Jack ruthlessly quashed the tiny flicker of Shaftoe-hope, for Jack Shaftoe would have to be _persuaded_.

Cursing under his breath, Jack pulled on his clothes, bedecked himself with what weaponry lay to hand, and crept silently out onto the deck of his ship.

* * *

Life was so manifestly unfair that Jack Shaftoe was tempted to start a fight, just for the sheer relief of it; the uncomplicated pleasure (God knew there were few enough of _those_ left to him, Jack Sparrow and his Unnatural Suggestions having spoiled and corrupted so many) of violence and mayhem, and matching his strength and agility against whatever bronzed, tattooed sailor --

"Oh, _bloody_ hell," said Jack feelingly, draining the rest of his drink. It was helping. The edges of his vision were beginning to acquire a rosy glow, and the Impish chorus of "You'll always be wondering, mate!" had mellowed to a strangely melodic roundelay, rather than a niggling itch that renewed itself every moment.

But still.

"So, Jack-my-love, which of us'll it be, eh?" said Nettie, wriggling and giggling in Jack's lap. He tightened his arm around her soft waist, pleased to make her squeak.

The French lass -- Nathalie -- sat next to him, draping herself elegantly over the arm of the settle to show her slender, boyish charms to their best. Jack tried to look straight at her, or away, because out of the corner of his eye she seemed to glitter and gleam more than was actually the case: he could've sworn he'd spotted gold when she opened her mouth to speak, though investigation (oh Lord, that Nettie was a tease) proved him wrong.

And perhaps, in the dark ...

God rot Jack Sparrow, and all his glimmer and shine and wicked words and mocking smile! And God rot the damned Imp, too, and its teasing taunting tempting _she's very like, Jack, very like, all hard and strong and dark and secret_ \--

"C'mon, love," said Jack to Nettie; and to Nathalie, "Sure I can't persuade you to join us, mam'selle?"

Nathalie shook her head, and though she smiled, and winked at Nettie, her eyes were still cold, not like --

Jack smirked at Wells and Smith -- "See you tomorrow, gents!" -- and let Nettie lead him by the hand, out of the common-room and up the stairs to a small, bare room at the back of the inn.

"Why'd you pick me, darlin'?" she murmured, unbuttoning him with professional expertise. "I saw how you looked at my Nat. There's some gentlemen who like 'em more ... more ..."

"Ah, but _I_ like 'em soft and curvy," said Jack, demonstrating: and soon enough the two of them were on the narrow bed, or half on it, Jack half-undressed and busily exploring the pleats and folds and buttons of Nettie's attire. And if Jack's mind -- or, more like, the Imp -- kept presenting him with images and sense-memories of darker skin, tauter muscles, a wicked black gaze: well, that was Jack's own business, and had nothing at all to do with his wanting to take it slowly.

"It's the rum," said Nettie, her hand busy on his yard. "Takes some men that way. Don't you worry, love, I know a remedy or two for that."

"What?" said Jack. "I just don't want to rush it. I want to savour the experience."

"Of course you do, Jack-my-lad, though I'd better tell you that it'll cost you every penny you have to savour it the whole night through. _Such_ a shame you didn't have the purse," her warm hand cupped Jack's balls, and he groaned, "to bring my Nathalie too. Why, I remember one time: 'e was a dashing pirate captain, flush with gold. Nat was a favourite of his, for he liked his girls tall and slender -- oh, and his men too! And he came in with all his ill-gotten gains, and nothing'd do but that he should have us both. Oh, a fine figure of a man he was -- not so tall nor so strong as yourself, Mr Shaftoe, nor with such fine yellow hair ..."

Nettie's tale was no more than a comforting murmur as her hands, and her mouth, worked that old magic on Jack Shaftoe's willing (though temporarily _distracted_ ) corpus: perhaps it _was_ the rum, after all, that was reducing every sensation to a ghost of itself, and making him no more than distantly interested in the acts being performed upon him. He tried to concentrate on the swell of Nettie's soft curves under his roaming hands, and the way her rounded breasts pressed against his ribs.

"... no, he was dark as a Carib, near enough, but fine and strong and supple, and his mouth was all full of gold, aye, and golden words too ..." Nettie giggled: and Jack, as though a Vision had been bestowed upon him, saw the scene she described as clearly as though he'd been there watching. Dark, scarred hands parting Nettie's milk-white thighs (Jack rolled on top of her, his enthusiasm quite restor'd); a bullion-gleaming smile as Nathalie's mouth wreaked havoc on the curve of the man's neck; the three of them twined around each other like a sailor's knot, all groans and red (and gold) mouths, flushed skin, flexing muscle, stretching sinew, eager hands, open and welcoming and oh, Jack Sparrow _here_ , inside this warm luscious body which Jack -- painfully pulsingly hard once more -- was penetrating.

Thinking about Sparrow -- though he'd never considered whether the pirate's affections were solely devoted to his fellow men -- made Jack dizzy. He kissed Nettie hard, and closed his eyes: but that was a mistake, for the rum, or the Imp, or his own perversity, presented him with the memory of Jack Sparrow's mouth opening under his, and the idea of Jack Sparrow fucking this girl, fucking Nathalie, _fucking_ ...

Jack gasped into the velvety, scented hollow of Nettie's shoulder as he came, and felt her tense beneath him; but 'twas only, after all, that he'd made her spend, and Jack sighed in relief at not having spoken any name.


	25. An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter 24

  


Jack and Stone stood in the dark, leaning over the gunwale; the approaching boat, small and weathered and barely sea-worthy, was clearly no threat to them, its single inhabitant’s panting breath almost drowning out the splash of his oars. He was an old, withered fellow, that much was clear even in the half-moonlight and the dimly thrown glow of the _Pearl_ ’s lanthorns; thin, silvery hair lifted from his skull in the breeze.

Jack waited for a while, but only a little while; it was too pathetic to watch the poor old codger struggling slowly nearer. He bore it for only a moment, before hollering, “Oi! Who in Hades are you, and what are you doing out here at this hour?”

The old fellow, who hadn’t had the energy to raise his head above his labours, craned upwards to where the great black bulk of the ship loomed above him. “Cornelisz vandenVoort is my name!” he cried, thinly. “I seek to talk with your master, gentlemen!”

“I’m master of this vessel,” Jack advised him, “and offhand, I have to tell you, I can’t think of anything I actually want to talk with you about at this particular moment in time, meinheer.”

VandenVoort pulled his oars in, letting the sea float him slowly closer while he gathered his breath; he reached inside his worn grey coat, and pulled out a bag, an obviously heavy bag, which bulged and clinked in a pleasantly familiar manner that made Jack all warm inside. “Would you like to talk about _this_ , Captain?”

“Alright, you’ve got my attention,” Jack said, and to Stone, “Let down the sea-ladder, help the poor old bugger aboard, will you? I’ll wait for him in my cabin, no need to disturb anyone else.”

*

“I take it,” said Jack, pouring ‘em both a measure of rum to counter the lateness of the hour and his almost overwhelming desire for sweet sleep (which might even bring with it—oh, please!—still sweeter dreams; there had to be some advantages to sleeping swaddled in the mind-warping reek of naphtha, and surely his earlier activities must’ve planted some potentially wonderful dream-seeds) “that you’re offering to give me that bag, in return for… something?”

The old fellow wiped the back of his hand over his sweaty forehead, and smiled thinly. “Your _something_ can be smelt by any man in this town, Captain; but not that many of them, I promise you, know what it is that they’re smelling. To me, now; no tulip could smell sweeter. I want your cargo; I can take it all off your hands, first thing, and leave your ship far safer, and a lot less… aromatic.”

“You want _all_ my cargo? I should warn, there’s a dozen—no, eleven—hogsheads of the stuff.”

A greedy light came into the rheumy eyes. “Jah, I’ll take it.”

“What on earth _for_?” enquired Jack, more from simple nosiness than for any bearings it might have on the proceedings. “Fancy yourself an Alchemist, eh?”

VandenVoort snorted. “I’m not fool enough, Captain, to think I can turn base metal to precious, or to think there’s some great esoteric mystery to be uncovered through potions and prayer. But… I know there are many very real, very useful, very… _tradeable_ items to be created through combinations of God’s more inexplicable gifts. And your naphtha is a very interesting ingredient to experiment with.”

“That it is, that it is; which brings us to the heart of the matter, being, what’ve you got in the bag, then?”

VandenVoort told him, a impressive count of reales; and Jack kept a poker face, though inwardly he was crowing, _three hundred percent, alright, and the rest!_ But still; no deal should be closed too precipitately.

“It’s not an _un_ fair price,” he said, with a neutral twist of his lips. “But what’s the hurry? Why the midnight voyage?”

“One must… strike, while the iron’s hot, eh, Captain?”

Which utterance clearly told Jack was that Cornelisz vandenVoort feared being outbid; and wasn’t that a wonderful piece of information? Jack felt almost sorry for the old bloke, he was such an absolutely crap negotiator.

“Very true, very true… and I shan’t keep you waiting on my answer, sir, no; I shall send word first thing in the morning.”

“Surely, Captain, you can decide now? And we can drink a toast to our agreement, eh, with your very fine rum?”

“Mmm, yes, well, no,” said Jack, with a rather lupine grin.

“Well, if you must drive a hard bargain, so be it; I’ll give you another ten percent, but no more sir; it’s my final offer.”

“Really?” said Jack, innocently wide-eyed, secure in the knowledge of what his cargo could accomplish, and what that must be worth. Secure in that knowledge thanks to Jack Shaftoe...

The sudden re-entry of that man’s name into Jack’s thoughts filled the low cabin with an unstoppable, rushing procession of spectral Shaftoes. Shaftoe, gleaming with sweat and energy and determination as he ransacked the cabin for his Secret Ingredient; Shaftoe sitting at the table playing cruel games with Don Esteban, his leg twitching under Jack’s hand; Shaftoe in his hammock, barely woken and unwarily smiling at Jack’s touch; and repeatedly, incessantly, deliciously, a shade of Jack Shaftoe pushed Jack back against the door, pinned him there, and with no warning, kissed him with a desperate, shaking heat.

Jack blinked, and blinked again, and tried most valiantly to clear his head of these ghosts. Jack Shaftoe was gone, and that was all there was to it. Jack Shaftoe was gone, and Jack Sparrow was in negotiations, and he should bloody well concentrate. What was the Dutchman on about now?

“Really, sir, my final offer, on my word as a philosopher,” said the old man, and there was an annoyed light in his eyes now that said he considered he was being set up for a fleecing. “It is, after all, no more than an _ingredient_ ; its purchase is speculative on my part, and I shall see no profit from it unless I should manage, through my own researches and experiments, to turn it into something more.”

If only Jack had bothered to find out—but no! No!—for Jack Shaftoe and this negotiation suddenly, beautifully, dove-tailed together in Jack’s mind. Click.

“Are you telling me that you don’t have a _receipt_?” said Jack, allowing a gentle, incredulous edge into his voice.

“That’s why I’m interested, man—I wish, as I said, to experiment,” snapped vandenVoort. “And since you took the risk of carrying this substance here, I’m sure you also know its purported uses, know that there are those who say that the most vivid, burning fire can be made from it; a fire that can’t be quenched by water. In your line of business, sir, would you not be an interested customer for such a weapon, eh? _That_ , Captain, is what I aim to produce.”

Jack examined his nails and tried to still the hammer of his heart, which was being doubly incited by the toothsome twin thoughts of Excessive Profits and Excuses to Find Jack Shaftoe. “What d’you think would happen to your price,” he enquired softly, “if my cargo happened to come _with_ that receipt, meinheer?”

This was greeted with a skeptical frown. “I think it would come down a long, long way; since I would know I was dealing with a knave and a liar,” declared vandenVoort.

“Izzat so? Well, you may have me on the first, but in this instance, I really must dispute the latter; and what if I could convince you that that ain’t the case? Stone!” Jack called, and the door opened almost instantly, and Stone’s weathered features, lit ghastly from below by the candle he held, peered through.

Jack scowled and muttered, “Naked flame, dolt!” and then said, “Go and wake any two of the men, will you, I don’t care who. Any of ‘em, and bring ‘em here. Oh, and throw in one of our prisoners, too, one that speaks a bit of English.”

“Or Dutch. Or Flemish, or French. Or Latin, or Greek of course,” said his visitor, pointedly, and Jack fought down a brief urge to place hands around his skinny neck. Stone disappeared, and Jack leant across the table.

“When those men come in here,” he said, “I’ll not say a word. But you ask them—just ask them—what they’ve seen done with that stuff, not two days since. And _then_ , mate, _then_ , we’ll negotiate.”

*

Half an hour later, the old man was gone, leaving behind him a written agreement for a purchase price that made Jack writhe with glee behind his stony negotiator’s mask, but which bore a codicil; a caveat; payment to be made, two-thirds upon collection of the barrels, and the final third, upon delivery of the written, and demonstrated, instructions for their use.

Which meant that Shaftoe was suddenly worth a lot of money to the company of the _Black Pearl_. And Jack Sparrow was entirely confident that they would make all necessary efforts to collect their bounty.

He snuffed the lanthorn, and lay back smiling on his cot, and let the ghosts of Jack Shaftoe play their dark and merry games with his blood.


	26. An Alchemical Prescription,  25

  
  
Jack Shaftoe, waking, took a moment to enjoy the sensation of a motionless bed beneath him, and a warm body pressed against him like a pillow from hip to shoulder, and a corresponding weighty swelling in his yard: he thrust aside ruthlessly the remains of a dream -- too much rum, for sure -- in which his bedmate of the night just past was somehow also the _previous_ person with whom he'd shared sleeping-quarters, and Jack had been desperate for more, even though the body against him had somehow become hard and sinewy and strong and --

Jack ground his teeth. He'd left Jack Sparrow behind him now, never mind what any Imp-dreams might indicate, and he wanted nothing (in any practical sense, at least) save to roll over and coax the girl -- Nettie -- into giving him a little more of the sweetness he'd enjoyed last night. It was early yet, though he could hear footsteps on the stairs, and there was light slanting in through chinks in the shutters. He'd plenty of time for another round of the grand old game.

Jack tightened his arm around Nettie's yielding waist, and bit gently at her rounded shoulder, and was gratified to feel her clever hand just where he fancied it. "Mmmm," he said, into her shoulder.

"Open up!" ordered someone outside the door, knocking fit to raise the dead.

"Fuck off!" Jack yelled, pulling the covers up over himself and the girl, and groping one-handed, on the floor beside the bed, for his sword. The voice was vaguely familiar, he'd remember it in --

"C'mon, Shaftoe, we know you're in there!"

Jack rolled his eyes heavenwards. Bloody Burton, that's who it was: Burton, and no doubt his ... his _friend_ , what's-his-name, Cooper.

"I'm with the _Dolphin_ now, mate!" he called back, taking care to sound more friendly than he felt. You never knew. "Not coming back to the _Pearl_ , so you just head along without me, all right?"

"Who is it?" whispered Nettie, clinging to him as Burton, without answering, thumped hard on the door again.

"Just some ... some sailors, love," Jack reassured her. "They'll be gone in --"

The door flew open, and Burton, with Cooper at his heels, stumbled in.

"-- a minute," finished Jack breathlessly, trying to untangle himself from the sheets and keep his sword pointing, more or less, at the intruders. "What the fuck d'you want, mate?" he demanded of Burton. "What are you barging around in here for?"

"Come to 'company you back on board, Shaftoe," announced Cooper in his thick country accent, grinning.

Jack waved his free hand irritably. "No, no, you've got it wrong, mate: I'm going back on the _Dolphin_ , see?" Nettie, bless her, had found his breeches: she draped them over his outstretched hand, which was all very kind, if impractical. Jack felt faintly ridiculous, standing there naked and half-hard waving a sword at his erstwhile crewmates, but he wasn't about to turn his back on them and get dressed.

"Captain says he needs you back," said Burton, with an untrustworthy smile. "C'mon, Jack: 'tis for your benefit, much as ours."

Inwardly, Jack was raging at bloody Sparrow and his high-handed tactics -- hell of a way to conduct a courtship, and why couldn't he just take 'no' for an answer? -- but he did not let it show. "Righto," he said. "Well, just let me get my gear on, eh?"

Cooper started to speak, and Jack clenched his fist, ready to punch him if he came out with any clever remark about Sparrow preferring Jack _naked_ : but Burton put a hand on his friend's shoulder, and nodded, and said, "Aye. We'll be outside, then." He nodded at Nettie, who had wrapped the sheet tightly about herself and was glaring at the two intruders icily. "Beg your pardon, lass."

As soon as the door snicked shut behind them, Jack dropped his sword noisily to the floor, and dragged on his breeches, his shirt, and his belt.

"What was all that about?" Nettie was demanding, looking very much less sweet than before. "What's this captain want of you?"

"I'd blush to tell you, princess," said Jack, grinning: then, lowering his voice, "but 'e ain't getting it." He emptied the contents of his purse -- a scant few shillings, and a blackened penny or two -- onto the stained sheet. "All yours, love, if you help me out and keep your mouth shut, after."

Ten minutes later -- having paused to give Nettie a kiss and a squeeze, for she'd been most obliging in all sorts of ways -- Jack was running along a dark, malodorous alleyway behind the tavern, trying to figure out what had changed.

Yesterday, last night, Sparrow had let him go: now he was sending his crew after Jack. Burton and Cooper had been in the tavern last night, while Sparrow had stayed on board the _Black Pearl_ , yet they knew that Sparrow'd changed his mind and wanted Jack. And that meant ... that meant that there were _other_ blokes from the _Pearl_ wandering the dives of Port Royal, probably every bit as keen as Burton and Cooper -- who'd had the advantage of knowing where Jack'd spent the night -- to bring this new trophy to their Captain.

Jack wondered bitterly if there was a price on his head.

"There he is!"

There was a figure silhouetted at the end of the alleyway, and Jack stumbled to a halt. There was a courtyard decked with billowing white laundry to his right, and he wove his way through it speedily, blowing a kiss to the dark-skinned maid who was hanging out more sheets. "Ssssh!" he told her, grinning, and she grinned back at him.

Jack plunged into the darkness of another inn, and was sworn at by the bloke sweeping the floor: then out into the sunshine again, on a street that he didn't recognise. He glanced to the left; more houses. To the right was the distant glitter and gleam of the harbour, and Jack turned that way. If he could make it to the _Dolphin_ he might yet be safe: the ship was due to sail at noon, any rate, and if he could get aboard there were any number of hiding-places, even if some bastard pirate came to drag him off again.

Out from a side-street emerged a wagon piled high with empty barrels, making its slow way to the warehouse on the other side of the main road. Jack waited, scowling, for it to get out of his way. He looked up at the sun -- nowhere near noon yet -- and then back the way he'd come.

There was a bloke with a broom standing at the gate of that inn he'd come through, pointing down the street -- pointing at _Jack_ , the perfidious oaf -- and then, Jack could see the glint of coin quite clearly, getting _paid_ for his information by a tall fellow with a pigtail.

"Bollocks," swore Jack feelingly, twisting around the cart-tail and heading for the harbour. There was a blur of something bright in the next doorway, and he instinctively shied from it: and then a hand on his arm, drawing him in, and a familiar voice saying, "This way, Jack."

By the time Jack had recognised the voice -- not to mention the repulsive yellow shirt -- he was standing in another shady courtyard, and Bootstrap Bill Turner was shutting the gate behind him, finger laid across his lips to enjoin silence. He set off towards an open doorway, beckoning, and Jack decided he might as well follow him. For sure, Bootstrap was Jack Sparrow's First Mate, and of his party; but those blokes outside looked uncommon keen on catching their prey, and Bootstrap was on his own. Besides which, Jack decided that he was owed an explanation. And any road, Bootstrap had offered him help, and he'd given Jack refuge from the others: _that_ had to be worth taking into account.

"I'll give it to you straight, Mr Shaftoe," said Bootstrap, once they were out on the porch at the other side of the house.

A girl brought them both cups of ale, and Jack, his throat parched by the dust and the exertion, drank deep. "You do that, mate," he said at last.

"The Captain had a visitor last night, a Dutch gent," said Bootstrap, "an' it seems he'll buy up all that bloody nap, naf, what-d'you-call-it --"

"Naphtha," said Jack, nodding sagely.

"Aye, that. He'll buy it all up for a very handsome sum -- _if_ (and this is where you come in, Jack) we'll give 'im the receipt for that Greek Fire of yourn."

"What, are you mad?" spluttered Jack. "Give it out to everyone who comes calling? Before you know it they'll be turning it on _you_. Ain't you heard of military supremacy?"

"That's just what Jack Sparrow said," Bootstrap told him, grinning (and missing, or at least misinterpreting, Jack's scowl). "But he's told our Dutch friend that you're the only bloke as knows it, and 'parently the Dutchman'll only pay up if he gets a demonstration -- a demonstration from you, Mr Shaftoe, who's famous for having _used_ the stuff."

"So I'm worth a lot of money to your Captain Sparrow," said Jack, somewhat mollified by Turner's respectful expression, and by the notion of having somehow become famous, rather than infamous.

"Oh, not just to the Captain," Bootstrap hastened to explain. "All of us: for, d'ye see, we all have _Shares_ in the business, and each of us is due some return per cent of what that Dutch gent pays."

"I suppose that explains the remarkable ... _eagerness_ of your charming shipmates," said Jack amiably. "But what's in it for me, eh, Bill?"

"I reckon we can make it worth your while," said Bootstrap brightly. "A good share of the profit, for sure." There was a hopeful smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"How do I know it ain't a trap?" said Jack, stretching out his legs with a great show of making himself comfortable. "How do I know it ain't one of Jack Sparrow's hare-brained schemes? He might be in cahoots with that Spanish bugger, for all _I_ know."

Bootstrap's smile thinned. "What can I say, mate? Trust me, eh?"

Jack looked at him, and tried not to think about Jack Sparrow asking the same of him. Trust, indeed! But Bill, it was evident, believed what he was saying: he was an honest chap, and an appalling card-player, and this was no bluff. He was looking at Jack almost pleadingly, and Jack couldn't resist this blatant opportunity to drive a hard bargain.

"Sorry, Bootstrap," he said, with a regretful moue, "but I've got my passage home all sorted, and I'd really better be on my way. I'm sure young Burton can come up with something, eh? He was there the whole time: he saw everything I did."

Bootstrap sighed, and shrugged. "Whatever you say, Mr Shaftoe; it's your call."

"Right," said Jack, surprised by Bootstrap's ready acquiescence. He glanced up at the sun again: still an hour or two to spare. "Perhaps --"

Something as heavy as a cannonball collided with the base of his skull, and the blue sky filled with fireworks and rocked from side to side above him. He was falling down, a long way down: and somewhere above him he heard Bootstrap's distant voice, calling out for help.


	27. An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter Twenty Six

  


This much, he was certain of: Jack Shaftoe, when he finally woke, was going to be angrier than a cut snake, given the size of the lump on the back of his head. And that was about the limit of his certainties; after his First Mate’s undeniably _practical_ , and yet not notably _civilised_ approach to winning the little sweetener Jack’d promised, he couldn’t be sure that he’d get even a ha’p’orth of co-operation from Shaftoe. Which was a frustration, to be sure; and Jack was determined to play this Shaftoe’s way, to be entirely businesslike and trustworthy and above reproach and all sorts of other things that didn’t come particularly naturally, until the deal was concluded and he had that final third of his payment in his hands.

But oh, it would be hard, so very hard; he knew that. For he’d been sat here beside Shaftoe, heavily limp on Jack's cot, for over an hour now, long enough that the late morning sun and its following shadow had moved gently, tenderly, all the way up Shaftoe’s form, up his long legs (golden hairs gleaming on his shins; Jack’d had his boots removed, but only to protect his bed, of course; and he’d managed to stop at the boots. Being all businesslike, and trustworthy, and all) and across the concave dip of his belly, up the gentle hills of his ribcage, and there came the glimmer again as the sun caught hair in the deep slash of his shirt’s neckline, and Jack’s lungs, quite unbidden, heaved in a deep, sighing breath as he saw it; and then, oh Lord, then the face, throwing shadows of long black lashes across tanned cheekbones, and asleep like this, Jack Shaftoe looked so _young_. Jack, who’d waged an ongoing battle with the curse of too-youthful looks, wondered briefly whether Shaftoe was even as old as he himself, and wondered more at the way he managed to present such a hardened, dangerous exterior when all he had to work with was this square and handsome face, this rosy curvaceous mouth.

_Businesslike and trustworthy and above reproach_ , Jack reminded himself; and he sat on his right hand, which was suffering most dreadfully from a need to push a stray strand of hair, yellow as summer grass, off Shaftoe’s face. And he sat marble-still, and watched, and let his vivid imagination be his proxy, let it wake Jack Shaftoe with a warm breath on his neck, and then a soft but certain kiss, and Jack closed his eyes, and grinned, irresistibly, to himself, and—

Jack Shaftoe groaned, and Jack’s eyes flew open, and he couldn’t suppress a sudden fear that maybe (Lord knew it’d happened before, and more than once) his imagination had taken over the actual running of his body, and he _had_ kissed Shaftoe awake. But no, here he sat, hands under thighs, _businesslike and trustworthy_ ; and Shaftoe scowled, and put a hand to his head, and groaned again, and finally opened his wild blue eyes, and fixed them on Jack.

“You _arsehole_ ,” said Shaftoe, with great sincerity; he glanced at the door, and flushed a little, and covered his eyes.

“My apologies for the, ah, enthusiasm with which my orders were carried out,” said Jack, with a friendly smile, manfully ignoring the colour rising in Shaftoe’s cheeks (the cause of which he could probably guess, but no! Now was really not the time to bring it up). “Or, no, I should say with which my orders were _interpreted_ ; I swear there was no head-bashing, nor knocking unconscious, nor kidnapping in my instructions. I merely requested an audience with your good self.” Keep talking, he thought to himself; this is going fine, he’s annoyed, but he’s too sore to jump up and hit me. I think.

Shaftoe swung his legs off the cot, and sat up, swearing and frowning most blackly. “There was no need for it,” he said, “for the, how’d you put it, ‘enthusiasm’; Bill’d explained the situation to me, I was merely commencing negotiations, and then some bastard knocked me down—who was that, by the way?”

“Oh, I don’t think that matters,” said Jack, hurriedly, not keen to have Shaftoe’s revenge, doubtless a horrid thing, extracted from young Martingale. “Negotiations, you say? So you’re willing to help?”

“In theory,” said Jack, cagily. (Noting, as he did so, that the sun had all but left Jack Sparrow’s cabin; ‘twas past noon, he could be sure, and his chance of leaving on the Dolphin had evaporated. Which meant that there was really no reason not to make a bit of money, while he was here. Might even be able to sail home like some gent, with his own bunk and everything!) “But,” he continued, “I’d expect some fairly serious _recompense_ , after what you’ve put me through.” He winced again, and groaned, with only a little exaggeration.

“Naturally,” said Jack, shrugging and spreading his palms in what he hoped was a gesture of sincerity and generosity, but it couldn’t’ve come off all that well, because Shaftoe barked with laughter, and then stopped, and grabbed his head again. “Is it bad?” Jack couldn’t help but ask, no more than he could help leaning forward, and gazing up into Jack Shaftoe’s pain-twisted face. “D’you want some rum? Or, no, no, I’ve better, here—” and he leapt to his feet and threw open his sea chest, and emerged triumphantly with a small, pearly glass bottle—“laudanum, took it from a Navy doctor, been saving it for the right occasion, here you go, mate—”

“Trying to drug me, now?” growled Jack Shaftoe, but Jack could see the hungry light in his eyes. “As you please,” he said, careless; “Help yourself, or not,” and he tossed it to Shaftoe, who didn’t take his eyes off Jack, but pocketed it nonetheless.

“But, to business,” said Jack, tearing his eyes from Jack Shaftoe’s hand in the pocket of his breeches. “I’ll give you double the cut of any other man on the ship, and I can’t say fairer than that, can I?”

“Five times.”

“Five! Three.”

“Five.”

“Four.”

“All right,” said Jack Shaftoe, and held out his hand, and Jack shook it, shook it very _hard_ and in a very _manly_ fashion, once, twice, three times.

“Bill explained the terms, then, did he? That we have to provide a demonstration, and a detailed list of ingredients?”

“Aye,” said Shaftoe, “but apparently you and I shared an opinion of the advisability, or otherwise, of being unnecessarily _accurate_ in our instructions.”

Oh, Christ, was he not perfectly … perfect? So perfect, so perfectly wicked, so perfectly cunning, so perfectly _right_ that Jack winced with it; winced, and nodded.

*

A fleeting expression of pain seemed to cross Sparrow’s face as Jack said that, and what the hell for, wasn’t Jack the one with the hammering headache? Damn, he wanted that laudanum, but was still too suspicious of Jack Sparrow’s intentions to risk being anything less than fully alert around him.

Of Sparrow’s intentions, and of the Imp’s; for that spindly creature had crept out from under Sparrow’s cot just as soon as Jack had awoken, and sat, cross-legged and cow-eyed, at Sparrow’s feet, stroking his bony knee through the rough linen of his breeches, resting its pointy chin in the other long-fingered hand. A repulsive display, it was, but it fully endorsed the inappropriateness of Jack’s urges; nothing that the Imp wanted this badly could possibly come to any good.

And his own intentions, his own? He’d been so very angry when he awoke, but the second he’d seen Jack Sparrow’s black gaze upon him, he’d been pulled back in time, and could see and hear and (vividly) feel how it had been, not a full day since, when he’d given in to his strange helpless rage and pinned the pirate to that low black door with the full weight of his own body, as though he would push himself through the other’s clothes, through his skin, into the hot pulsing centre of him; had kissed him, _kissed him!_ ; and how his heart had shrieked and leapt in shock and joy at the confident touch of Jack Sparrow’s tongue, nothing he’d expected, and everything he’d suddenly wanted. And the anger that he felt at being dragged back here, against his will, seemed utterly fraudulent; seemed to be generated only to fool himself, and yet he wasn’t being fooled by it. It was not against his will to be back in Sparrow’s company. It was not, and the blood rushed to his face for the shame of it.

But Sparrow looked at him blank and friendly, and made no mention of any of it, no mocking references to _last time you were here_ , no sly glances at the door, or at Jack’s reddened face. Which was, in theory, just how it should be. So Jack concentrated on the pain in his head, which was sufficient to tamp down the more inflammatory moments of his recollections, and held a Sensible Conversation, just as Jack Sparrow seemed to want to do.

“I’ve advised our buyer,” Sparrow was saying, “that we’ll visit him this afternoon; he’s already collected his goods. That suit you?”

“Fine,” said Jack, as coolly as if discussing the weather with his neighbour.

“And then, Mr Shaftoe, you’ll be a free man again.”

“Fine.”

“Yes. Right. Fine.”

A small silence ensued. Jack Sparrow’s knee jogged up and down, dislodging the Imp’s caressing paw, and earning him (though he did not know it) a small, twisty red pout. Into the quiet came a foreign curse, far-off, and muffled.

“Oh,” said Jack; “You’ve still got visitors, then.”

“Ah, damnation; I’ve been so busy with this naphtha, and getting you kidnapped, and everything, I haven’t had a moment to deal to ‘em.”

“Thought you said your orders didn’t involve kidnapping?” said Jack dryly.

Sparrow glowed with amusement as he shrugged eloquently and said, “Don’t let’s bandy semantics, Mr Shaftoe,” and Jack snorted.

“Still planning on a ransom?”

“Oh, aye; in fact, I must discuss the options with dear Don Esteban this evening; say, Jack,” said Jack Sparrow, putting his head to one side, and favouring Jack with a loaded, wide smile that Jack recognised with delight as a harbinger of absolute gleeful wickedness, “won’t you stay and dine with us? If you ain’t got anywhere else to be, that is?”

Jack fought back a laugh at the memory of that other meal with Don Esteban; and despite the obvious inadvisability of spending too much time in Jack Sparrow’s company, he didn’t have anywhere else to be, not really. Except perhaps in that Nathalie’s bed; for a moment he wavered between the thought of fucking Jack Sparrow’s female counterpart (an undeniably attractive option, and yet, _why_ , WHY?) and the thought of spending an evening drinking and laughing with the real Jack Sparrow.

But then Sparrow muttered, almost as an afterthought, as he picked dirt from under his nails, “’Course, I’d split you in on the ransom money too, if you was to help,” and there it was, The Deciding Factor, also recognisable as The Perfect Excuse.

“I’ll think about it,” said Jack Shaftoe, and they shared a complicit grin; “But first things first; ain’t we due to blow something up?”


	28. An Alchemical Prescription,  27

  
  
"Hey! Yes, you, sir!"

Jack Sparrow was not accustomed to being thus addressed. He turned with a sneer on his lips and a correction on the tip of his tongue: but beside him, Shaftoe grinned and murmured, "Not so hasty, Jack." And Jack, who was beginning to appreciate Shaftoe's intelligence in addition to his more evident attributes, merely nodded civilly to the red-faced gentleman who'd hailed him.

"Have you come about the smell?" the man demanded of them both. He was a stout, red-faced fellow with thinning hair and a perpetual scowl, and he was looking from Shaftoe to Sparrow as though trying to determine, in advance of any misdemeanour, which one of them to blame for it. Shaftoe, who was carrying an angularly bulging sack over his shoulder, was clearly the more culpable.

"What smell?" said Jack, happily immune (the _Pearl_ being stenchful still, despite the removal of eleven hogsheads of naphtha) to any aroma whatsoever. "I don't --"

"Aye," said Shaftoe, loud enough to drown out Jack's words. "A terrible reek, ain't it?"

"Old Dutch's gone too far this time," muttered the man darkly. "You tell him, sirs, if he doesn't get rid of whatever's making that infernal odour, then _we_ shall get rid of it for him!"

"That we will!" said another of vandenVoort's neighbours -- for it was clear to Jack by now that they'd found the Dutchman's residence, despite the spidery scrawl of his address -- leaning on his gate. He was smoking a pipe, a sight that even now sent Jack twitching with the desire to extinguish it. He looked away, and caught a flicker of movement as the acne'd youth who'd been following them ducked behind a hedge.

"I assure you all," said Jack Shaftoe pleasantly, with a civil smile, "that we're here for that very purpose: indeed, we hope to persuade Mister ... Mister ..."

"VandenVoort," supplied Jack in a whisper.

"Mister vandenVoort, yes, to be rid of every ounce of the stuff. But I pray you all, do _not_ , under any circumstances, enter that house, nay, never mind what you might hear or see! For the stuff gives off the most noxious and injurious effluvia: why, Mister vandenVoort cannot be long for this world, having accumulated so very much of it --"

"We must make haste," intoned Jack solemnly, catching Shaftoe's eye and fixing him with a cautionary look. "To ensure that Meinheer vandenVoort is _fully cognisant_ of the nature of his goods."

"Indeed," said Shaftoe, beaming around at his audience, and making a little bow that rattled the contents of the sack he carried. "I entreat you all, good sirs, to stay within."

"There was no need for all that, Mr Shaftoe, now was there?" murmured Jack as he reached up to knock on vandenVoort's door. "It's not as though we've anything to hide. This, may I remind you, is Legitimate Business."

Shaftoe looked coolly back at him, the corner of his mouth twitching in a way that drew Jack's eye like a magnet. "True," he admitted. "But 'tis always better to keep the particulars to yourself, eh? And besides, that bloke's been following us --"

Shaftoe fell silent as the heavy door opened. Cornelisz vandenVoort stood there, nodding to Jack and eyeing Shaftoe suspiciously. He was no more prepossessing by daylight, and Jack itched to take his money and be done with it: but this was Honest Trade, and must be conducted properly.

"Meinheer, may I introduce the gentleman of whom I spoke," said Jack, "Mr Jack Shaftoe, of London, who has studied with the great alchemists of Europe and is well-acquainted with the more ... _interesting_ properties of that substance you've lately purchased at such a preferential rate." He kept an eye on Shaftoe as he spoke, delighting in the way that Shaftoe's expressive face -- that tightening of the jaw, the narrowing of his eyes -- betrayed his appreciation of Jack's testimonial.

"Is that so?" said vandenVoort, examining Shaftoe with more respect. "Well, Mr Shaftoe, I shall look forward to your demonstration of the Art: I am honoured to welcome a fellow practitioner to my home. Pray follow me."

Shaftoe inclined his head graciously, but said nothing as the two of them -- Jack's fingers itching with curiosity as they passed shelves crammed with papers and jars -- trailed through the dark, pungent house after their host.

The hogsheads were out under the eaves, lined up against the scullery wall, lidded and wrapped in oily sacking. Jack phant'sied he could _see_ the miasma rising from them, curling and coiling like steam or smoke in the afternoon sun. Here the aroma was really quite disgusting: even Jack, who'd grown accustomed to it over the past weeks, made a face, and Shaftoe pulled a dirty neck-cloth up over his mouth and nose. It gave him a villainous look. VandenVoort looked askance at him, and then at Jack.

"I have the receipt here," Jack announced, drawing a sheaf of papers from within his coat.

"And how do I know it's the true Greek Fire?" objected vandenVoort. "Eh? What proof have I that these papers --"

Objectionable old sod, thought Jack.

"Mr Shaftoe is going to demonstrate the process," he said, smiling tightly. "You may follow it, stage by stage, as he works."

"Very well," said vandenVoort gruffly. "Very well. Let's see it, then." He waved a hand vaguely at the barrels.

Shaftoe had insisted that they equip themselves with the necessities, rather than relying on the customer to have any alchemical equipment to hand: now he drew from the sack a round copper kettle -- which he set down on a clear patch of earth, some way from the hogsheads -- and a blackened wooden ladle.

"See, first he takes a measure of the naphtha, and places it in a receptacle," instructed Jack. "A _fireproof_ receptacle, I might add."

Shaftoe, with an admirable flourish, produced a soft leathern pouch ("wood ash," explained Jack) and tipped the grey powdery contents into the kettle, stirring all the while: then a black, viscous substance in a clay flask, which he added to the mixture by the simple expedient of cracking the flask open, like an egg, on the edge of the bowl.

"What is this?" said vandenVoort suspiciously. "It says here, 'pitch', but pitch must be heated to soften it."

Shaftoe shot him a haughty, exasperated look. Oh, he was so utterly perfect an accomplice! Though Jack wished he could see Shaftoe's mouth, for he was nearly certain that his Alchemist was smirking gleefully behind that tattered neckerchief.

"The pitch is already heated," said Jack offhandedly. "The flask keeps it warm for long enough. After all, meinheer, we're all busy men, ain't we? Wouldn't want to waste your time, heating up this and grinding up that."

Shaftoe, stirring one-handed, reached for the sack and withdrew the final ingredient: a clear glass bottle from which Jack, complaining, had decanted some very nice rum. Now it held a clear golden liquid that glowed in the sunlight. Jack was almost certain that Shaftoe had turned just _so_ , to illumine it thus.

Cornelisz vandenVoort, peering at Jack's ornate penmanship, wrinkled his nose. "Urine," he pronounced.

"Aye," lied Jack, nodding and smiling. " _Fresh_ urine; though they do say that, when 'tis left to stand for some days, it has greater force."

"And where --" began the Dutchman, scowling: but he thought better of his question, and did not complete it. Jack dared not look at Shaftoe, in case he could no longer contain his amusement, and Shaftoe kept his head down and stirred industriously.

* * *

Jack Shaftoe had learnt a great deal from Enoch Root, but he had already known one of the greatest secrets of alchemy, demonstrated as well by any charlatan on the Pont-Neuf as by Enoch himself in courts and palaces: to wit, that a man might profit more from _appearances_ than from _actuality_. Jack's silence stemmed in part from a desire to project an air of mystery, and in part from the urge to avoid being drawn into conversation by this desiccated old fool, but mostly it arose from a sincere wish for peace and quiet. His head still ached from his precipitous recruitment to the _Black Pearl_ 's company (never mind that Sparrow hadn't dealt the blow, and wouldn't admit to authorising Reasonable Force) and the stench from this vile brew was enough to make his eyes water.

But it was important to play to one's audience, and Jack couldn't help but notice that he had more of an audience than he'd planned. VandenVoort was flatteringly attentive, and hadn't seen through any of Jack's substitutions or sleights of hand, and Sparrow was watching him with evident admiration -- though that was doubtless for the _verisimilitude_ of Jack's performance, rather than its _verity_. But Jack had noticed, too, some surreptitious movements in the vicinity of the garden wall, and a most unsubtle rustling in the stand of trees that screened this house from its neighbour. Not that any watcher would distinguish much from there: but Sparrow's voice carried clearly, as though he were anxious that others should hear.

A shame, really, that the receipt he'd recited bore so little resemblance to Jack's Preparation.

The mess in the kettle was steaming gently, and thickening as he stirred it. There hadn't been time, back on the _Black Pearl_ , to refine the proportions: the two of them had been too busy concocting and transcribing a list of substances which might, to the credulous eye, resemble the actual ingredients (quicklime, oil and spirits of wine, mixed in with a little black powder and some sweepings from the armoury) of the brew. Jack had a vague notion that his Experiment might ignite of its own accord if he stirred it for very much longer.

"'Tis done," he intoned solemnly, with a dramatickal gesture.

Sparrow turned to the Dutchman, who was craning his neck eagerly in an attempt to see this wondrous substance. Jack, contrary to a fault, tipped the kettle away from him, frowning and shaking his head as though to warn against great peril.

"Your target, meinheer?" enquired Jack Sparrow, with a half-bow as obsequious as any courtier's.

VandenVoort, huffing, looked around the kitchen garden. It was evident that he hadn't thought this far.

Sparrow's smile sharpened. "Quick, now, meinheer," he urged, "or it'll take us all to ... to kingdom come."

"Can it not be ignited in place?" complained vandenVoort.

"Of course it can," said Sparrow, shrugging. "But you'll always be wondering, eh?" And he looked Jack in the eye.

For a moment Jack thought his Science Experiment must've combusted, impatient of their quibbling, for he felt a rush of warmth throughout his body. Then he remembered when he'd heard those words before, and the warmth sharpened and focussed. God, he must be red in the face: and Sparrow's smile, damn him, was full of suppressed wickedness. VandenVoort looked from Sparrow to Jack, frowning a little, so perhaps the root of his embarrassment was not all that obvious.

Jack, keen to locate some distraction, looked around. There was a long wooden pole propped against the scullery wall, almost as tall as Jack and about as thick as his two thumbs. Probably left over from some horticultural endeavour, though from the look of vandenVoort's garden it was unlikely to be needed again. Jack hefted it in one hand, getting the balance.

"Captain Sparrow," he said, "might I trouble you for a light?"

It was the work of an instant to whip off his bandana and wrap it around one end of the makeshift spear. Jack knotted it tightly, ignoring vandenVoort's querulous remarks, and dunked it in the kettle at his feet, letting it soak up the Fire. God, it smelt foul.

"Yon thicket," he said mildly, "is infested with vermin. No, sir, I assure you it is! But a little Alchemy is sure to drive 'em out."

Sparrow had his tinderbox out; he struck a spark, and it seemed to leap from the tinder to the marinaded remains of Jack's neckerchief. Jack, averting his face from the sudden blaze, took a moment to aim: then he hurled the spear in a great arc towards the bottom of the garden.

The spear flew true, or true enough, blazing whitely in the afternoon sun, and trailing smoke and saffron flame behind it; and in the instant before it struck its target, the foliage rustled and shivered and disgorged a spotty-faced youth, who spouted prayers as he fled towards, and scrambled over, the garden wall.

"Sounds as though he's landed on somebody," said Sparrow mildly, cocking an ear towards the resultant commotion. "Another Alchemist, perchance?"

VandenVoort was making outraged noises, calling down Justice and Fate upon some gentleman named Smith. He set off towards the wall in high dudgeon, not even looking at the tree blazing so brightly. Jack could feel the heat of it from here: any moment, surely, someone would come and try to extinguish it. He deemed it safe to look at Sparrow once more.

"'Twas well done, Jack, very well done," murmured Sparrow, bending that hot, sharp smile on Jack. And after all, it _had_ been well done, Jack argued with that part of himself that insisted he turn away and shrug off the pirate's praise: why should Jack not bask, just for a moment, in Sparrow's appreciation?


	29. An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter Twenty-Eight

  


Several hours later, Jack was basking in more than Sparrow’s appreciation; he (and indeed, the Captain) were soaking up the admiration of every man aboard the _Black Pearl_ , mostly as a result of the very fair and equitable distribution of Cornelisz vandenVoort’s reales. Too fair, almost; Jack’d scowled and opened his mouth as he received the same handful of coins as Stone, next to him, but at the very last instant had caught Sparrow’s hard blank look and realised that the pirate knew exactly what he was doing. Cunning creature; and Jack had to appreciate it, for it could only reflect well upon him, in the eyes of the rest of the company.

Oh, it felt good to have a heavy purse in his pocket; he hadn’t had this much disposable wealth for a considerable time. And no Mary Dolores (or any of her motley array of relatives) to get word of it and come and claim their share, neither!

And the grog was flowing freely, as the company celebrated; and there were fine smells coming up from the galley, where the cook, delighted to be able to fire up his ovens without fearing for his life, was slowly replacing the miasmic remnants of the naphtha with a lip-smacking aroma of fresh pork. Ah, God, pork crackling, dripping hot fat; Jack’s mouth watered, his very teeth ached, with desire for it.

As the sun set, Jack Sparrow came searching, and found Jack cross-legged down in the waist, drinking with Tall Pete and his equally ugly brother, Samuel, and trying to find out who’d hit him on the head that morning (Jack was quite certain that they all knew, the smirking bastards, but not one of ‘em could be convinced to part with the information). The funds, the rum, and the late slant of sunshine, and the eventful day following on the heels of a tiring night with young Nettie were all conspiring to lull Jack into a sleepy, cheerful haze; he squinted up at Sparrow, standing silhouetted against a wild gold sunset, and smiled a bright open smile.

“Jack, if I may be so rude as to interrupt,” said Jack Sparrow, “would you care to join me for dinner? Bootstrap’ll have Don Esteban along in a few moments.”

See, yet another thing to be happy about; taunting that loathsome Spaniard, and getting a share of the ransom. For a day that started out so vilely, it was ending well. Very well.

*

Down in his cabin, Jack Sparrow counted out a fat handful of coins into Jack’s palm. “There you go, mate: paid in full, and my thanks,” he said, and, as Jack pocketed his takings, he poured them each a drink, and stretched his legs out on a temporarily empty chair.

“Worked well, eh?” said Jack, who’d been utterly relieved to be able to recreate his formula, not once, but twice today. He felt positively worthy to be called Alchemist. “Though I don’t suspect it’s going to do much for Neighbourhood Harmony.”

Sparrow giggled, yes _giggled_ , and it was a contagious sound. “D’ye think Mr Smith’s eyes and ears, in the vegetation there, got it all? Or might there be another market for our receipt?”

“’Tis valuable information,” mused Jack, blandly. “And on that subject, what information is it that you require from Don Esteban?”

“Why, I’d’ve thought it obvious; I’m after an indicator of who might be _able_ , and at the same time _willing_ , to make it worth our while to deliver that good gentleman into safety. And while there’re plenty of wealthy Spanish merchants around here—"

“It’s hard to compass that any one of ‘em would pay for _Don Esteban_ ,” finished Jack, and they both sniggered, Sparrow muttering, “Well, ‘zackly;” and then, “Shh, here ‘e comes.”

The door opened, and Espinosa entered, Bootstrap behind him; and Jack frowned to see the change that a few days’ incarceration had wrought in the man. He looked utterly wretched; pale, yellowed, with great dark circles beneath his eyes, and stubble over cheeks that had always been perfectly shaven; his coat and weskit had been taken away, and his shirt was caked and grey. Nasty, he looked.

Sparrow evidently agreed with this assessment: “Oh, Bill, couldn’t you’ve fixed him up a bit?” he said, his lip curling in revulsion. Espinosa looked at him with blank eyes.

“I offered him his coat,” said Bill, as if Sparrow had impugned him as a host; “Said he didn’t want it.”

“No need for that attitude,” Sparrow said, gently reproving, to the Spaniard. “Come on, man, take a seat. Have a drink.”

Jack could barely hide his distaste; not for the prisoner’s shabbiness (a state with which Jack was intimately, and comfortably, familiar) nor his dirtiness (ditto) but for his apparent lack of _backbone_ ; he seemed to’ve lost all spark, and those overly familiar, suggestive glances were nowhere to be seen. He did not speak; and when plates were brought in, full of succulent pork, baked apples, fresh bread, he grabbed at it as if he hadn’t eaten in an age. Which, if Jack had read Captain Sparrow’s character rightly, seemed highly unlikely.

“Hungry, then?” said Sparrow. “Rations not to your liking?”

Espinosa looked up, his mouth full, and scowled. “Your men feed us like pigs,” he said, several small morsels shooting from his mouth in a manner that rather proved the hypothesis. Jack looked away from him, and filled his plate rather more slowly.

“Well, you’ll be pleased to learn,” Sparrow said, tearing the crust off a slice of bread and waving it about as he spoke, “that our rather evil-smelling cargo has left the vessel, and your accommodations should be far less unpleasant, now.”

“I am aware of that,” said Don Esteban, stiffly, swallowing; “Do you think me a fool, not to have noticed its removal from beside your foul brig?”

Jack just didn’t have the heart to make the obvious deafness-related crack; and he looked at Sparrow, and he didn’t either. It was just too pathetic. Damn the man, he was quite ruining dinner. Though that pork was _very_ hard to ruin.

“Shall we get to the point, then?” said Sparrow, clearly of the same opinion as Jack, that this was no fun. “You’ve been an enormous nuisance to me and mine; and we’d like to recoup some of our losses, ‘fore ye go.”

“Pardon?”

Oh, for God’s sake. Jack rolled his eyes, and said loudly, “Is there anyone who might pay us money _not_ to kill you?”

“You seek to, to, _rescate_ , to—”

“Aye, aye, ransom is the word you’re lookin’ for; we’re in Port Royal, who d’you know in Port Royal?” said Sparrow. Don Esteban pulled a face of horror and despair. God, he was a ham. And Jack was a man with a considerable tolerance, a soft spot even, for dramatics.

“I suppose… perhaps…” Don Esteban said, in little more than a whisper, and reached for more meat. Sparrow slapped at his hand.

“Talk, then eat,” he snapped. “And get on with it, I’ve had enough of you. As has Mr Shaftoe, here, and he ain’t a patient man, not like me. Christ, man, even Mr Turner’s sick of you, and he’s a virtual saint, ain’t you, Bill?”

“Comparatively,” Turner agreed.

Don Esteban looked up, pathetically. “I have… one… friend, who might… but no, he would never believe that such a vile thing could be contemplated, he is an honest man, a good man, he would not deal with men like _you_. He would not believe that you hold me against my will.”

Sparrow smiled, and snorted, as if he could see where this line of talk was heading. “If you’re going to suggest that I take you along as proof, and give you a chance to wriggle away, you may as well save your breath.”

“Still, you must prove that you have me, no?” said the Spaniard, with a glint of his old spark.

“We could send him some _part_ of you,” suggested Jack, fingering his knife thoughtfully. “Noses, I’ve found, are quite surprisingly recognisable.”

"Really?" said Sparrow, with raised eyebrows, and an inquisitive tilt of his head.

The spark went out then; and with a trembling hand, Don Esteban pulled a heavy gold ring from his left index finger, and passed it to Sparrow. It bore a crest, a hilltop castle in the Moorish style, carved in chalcedony. “Give this to him, to Don Alejandro de Braxas, the merchant; you will find his home on the eastern headland, anyone here will tell you the way. He will know it is I. And tell him that I shall repay him, whatever vile demands you make of him; that I am, as always, a man of honour.”

Shaftoe, Sparrow and Turner made an unattractive chorus of snorts and barks at this assertion. The Spaniard lifted his chin with great dignity, and reached for more food. Jack slapped him this time. He’d been eyeing that piece of crackling for ages.

*

Sparrow could see, when Espinosa had been taken away, that something had deflated in Jack Shaftoe; and though he suspected he knew what it was, he had to bring it up and out into the open. Had never been a man who could let sleeping dogs lie.

He poked a booted foot at Shaftoe, under the table, where they sat picking desultorily over the remains of dinner.

“Severely disappointing, eh? No fun at all,” he said.

“’Tis no way for a man to live life,” muttered Shaftoe.

”I _know_ ,” Jack agreed, fervently. “Just giving up, like that; no _fight_ in the fellow, tragic, it was.”

“Not that, fool,” said Shaftoe, and Jack reflected that there weren’t many men in the world who would call him ‘Captain’ one day, ‘Jack’ the following, and ‘fool’ the next, and be suffered to do so; but there was so little rancour in Jack Shaftoe’s artless tone that he really couldn’t rise to it. “I’m talking of _piracy_ , if this is piracy; taking money from frightened men, lying and threatening.”

Oh, see, now, _that_ was worth rising to. “Bollocks!” cried Jack; “’Tis the Spaniard who’s turning this into an unfair contest! If he’d kept his nerve, now—”

“Then what? Then we’d not have the information that we need, would we?”

“Oh, I’m sure I could’ve convinced him; but wait one moment, sir, and tell me when it was that you conceived this dreadful distaste for mendacity? All I can say is, I’m glad it didn’t occur before this afternoon, when the pair of us, may I remind you, lied our arses off.”

Shaftoe grinned wanly at the recall of it, and heaved a sigh, and shrugged. “Ah, don’t listen to me; that filthy Spaniard’s left some trace of his misery with me. Sleep, is all I need.” And he ran a hand through his bright hair, and rubbed his eyes.

Jack wanted to say, _No, mate, that’s not what you need, I can show you what you really need, if you’ll just let me_ , but he did not. Instead, he said, “You can stay here, as before; and I shan’t…”

Shaftoe looked up, with a funny light in his eyes. A light that was ambiguous enough to make Jack’s heart race; to make him rephrase his thought, and say, rather faintly, “… shan’t, you know; do anything that you, you… don’t want.”

Shaftoe said nothing, but Jack could see him swallow. Watched his Adam’s apple rise and fall; wanted, just wanted, Jack Shaftoe to stay with him.

But Shaftoe was still silent, holding his gaze for a long time, too long; and what did it mean? Did it mean that he wasn’t opposed to, perhaps, finding out what he’d run away from yesterday? Or was there (oh yes there might be) an edge of threat in that look, an edge that said, _don’t you dare_ ; and Jack, confused and enervated, jumped up, a sudden burst of energy rushing through him, a sudden need to move before he did something he would regret; and he said, “Here, I’ll show you something as’ll cheer you, Jack Shaftoe; it’s never failed to cheer me, not once.”

He smiled his most winning smile, and held out a hand; and Jack Shaftoe surprised him, and took it.


	30. An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter Twenty-Nine

  
Jack Sparrow's hand was warm, and strong, and his smile brought an answering one -- quite unbidden -- from Jack Shaftoe, who was still dizzy with the way that Sparrow had looked at him just now. "Shan't do anything that you don't want," indeed! All very well, all very fine: but if _Jack_ didn't know what he wanted, then how could Sparrow claim any knowledge of the matter?

And besides, there was that needling little chorus in the back of his mind, an Impish carolling that called him a liar and implied that he did, in fact, know _exactly_ what he wanted; and, yes, taking Jack Sparrow's hand, and holding onto it as though it were salvation, was another step on the road to acknowledging that want.

He was dizzy with it, and dizzier when Sparrow -- after a moment's still silence between them, a dark glitter in the pirate's gaze as Jack stared helplessly up at him -- hauled him to his feet, and let go (Jack's hand felt cold) and repeated, "Something as'll cheer you, Jack Shaftoe."

Jack, fumbling after the remnants of his dignity, fought back the urge to tell Sparrow that his company was enough: that was the rum, or fatigue, or the lingering after-effects of some bastard with a fist like a rock. Instead, he raised an eyebrow and managed, "By all means, Captain Sparrow: lead the way."

"Follow me," instructed Sparrow, and Jack did as he was bidden, looking resolutely down at the invisibly black deck beneath his feet, and trying not to think of pressing Jack Sparrow against the black oak of the cabin door: only yesterday.

"Where is it, then?" he demanded of Sparrow, as the pirate led him aft. "This cheerful thing of yourn?"

"Patience, Mr Shaftoe, patience," said Sparrow over his shoulder, not looking at Jack. He detoured around a couple of blokes sprawled together on the deck (Jack averted his gaze, in case they were not merely _drunken_ but _debauched_ ) and, in one lithe movement, swung himself up into the ratlines.

"Up there?" said Jack, perhaps too loudly: there was a sleepy murmur from behind him.

"Aye, Jack," said Sparrow, "if you're game." And before Jack could question him further, he'd turned away and started for the top.

Jack Shaftoe was tired, but he could see a challenge when it was set before him so blatantly, and he was not about to back down from it for fear of any importune remark. He kicked off his boots, set his hands on the ratlines and pulled himself aloft after Sparrow.

The moon was nearly full, and her buttery light was bright enough to show Jack every rope and stay. Ahead of him -- _still_ ahead of him -- Sparrow's dark form scrambled spider-like up the rigging as though it were a ladder, and Jack stretched and reached and swung himself higher and higher, as though the two of them were bound, not for the maintop, but for the yellow moon.

He reached the maintop a moment after Sparrow, whose gaspy breathing betrayed his effort even as he made a show of settling himself comfortably in one corner of the little space, proffering the rum-flask to Jack.

Jack took it, but did not drink: he stood for a moment looking down at Sparrow, all golden and shimmery and devilish in the moonlight. "Where's this cheering sight o' yours, then?" he enquired, feigning examination of the lights of the town, the loom of the cliff, the silken shimmer of rippling black water.

"Why, here, Jack, here," said Sparrow, and for a moment Jack phant'sied that Sparrow's gaze was fixed upon himself: but then Sparrow was on his feet again, one hand on the broad mast despite the _Pearl_ 's anchored stillness, gesturing at the long dark leaf-shape of the deck below them, and the bare mizzen-mast, and the lantern at the tip of the bowsprit. "Is she not lovely, my _Pearl_? Is she not grace and strength and freedom, eh?"

Jack nodded: he could not deny it, and he had no words for the feeling that rose in him at the sight of Jack Sparrow's evident adoration of his ship.

"Freedom," he said at last, clumsily, as the silence stretched between them, and Sparrow's stillness began to seem more tension than rest. "To freedom!" And he drank deep of the rum, hoping it would ease the vertigo that had nothing to do with being so high above the world.

* * *

Jack Sparrow had not paused to think of why he'd brought Shaftoe aloft with him; he knew only that, had they stayed in his cabin one minute more, he would not have been answerable for his actions. The sense-memory of Shaftoe pushing him against the door and kissing him, hard and hot and keen, could not have been said to have left Jack Sparrow for more than a handful of minutes, all through the day; his proximity, and the gloomy way he'd looked at Jack after they'd sent Don Esteban back to the brig, had only made it worse. And Jack wanted, very badly, to make Shaftoe smile again. In an ideal world, of course, Shaftoe would be smiling at him -- he'd smiled, had he not, after the Kiss? -- and Jack felt confident that he could cheer Shaftoe tremendously, if only Shaftoe would open himself to being cheered.

Aye, that was the issue: that look of Shaftoe's, so inscrutable, just now. Had he wanted more? Had he wanted none of it? There'd been a spark, a definite spark, down there in the cabin, but for all Jack knew it'd been anger at finding himself once more alone with Jack Sparrow. Oh, he'd followed Jack willingly enough, and the way he was looking at him now -- not down at the clean hard lines of the _Black Pearl_ , but at her captain -- was most definitely cheering. And he was toasting freedom, though Jack'd lay he'd never _tasted_ it, not in the way that a man who was master of his own ship might do.

Jack smiled to himself, and took the rum from Shaftoe, and echoed his toast.

"So, mate, what'll you do when you're free?" he said idly, settling himself once more in one corner of the 'top and turning his face up to the bright dazzling moon.

"Free?"

"Aye: you know, once we've the ransom money from Don Esteban and his merry crew."

"Surprised you don't want to keep him for yourself," said Shaftoe, with an evil smile.

"Well, Mr Shaftoe," said Jack equably, "if his ... his _friend_ values him at all, I'll profit more by being rid of him. And besides," he opened his eyes and held Shaftoe's gaze, "he's dull company. Dull and spineless."

Shaftoe, not looking away from Jack, licked his lips (oh Christ) and drank again. Jack entertained a brief, delicious phant'sy in which Jack Shaftoe was deliberately getting drunk with him, Jack Sparrow; dissolving his inhibitions, prejudices and the memory of Don Esteban's ineffectual, _spineless_ overtures, readying himself for ...

Jack clenched his fists at his sides, determined not to touch Shaftoe, not to lay a hand on him. Let him make the next move, as he'd made the first: let him make it perfectly, inescapably clear that he desired Jack.

And Jack would not hesitate to reveal that his desires were returned.

In the meantime, he could not resist asking, "And what about you, Mr Shaftoe? Find yourself some pleasant company last night, did you?"

It was difficult to tell in the strange, monochrome light, but he thought Shaftoe's face was flushed. He answered readily enough, though: "Aye, and if I'd had coin enough I might've had double."

Jack raised an eyebrow, trying not to picture Shaftoe sprawled naked, his broad hands stroking a plethora of soft creamy curves. It was an appealing phant'sy, right enough, but it lacked a place for Jack himself. "Well, you're a rich man, Mr Shaftoe: I dare say you'll be able to have whatever you want, once we're rid of our ... visitors."

"How long d'you think it'll take?" said Shaftoe, stretching his legs out in front of him. His bare, pale foot brushed against Jack's ankle, but he did not pull away. Fascinating.

"Oh, a day or so, I reckon," said Jack nonchalantly, sipping rum and keeping himself very still, in case a sudden twitch should frighten Jack Shaftoe away. "I'll send a party to negotiate in the morning --"

"Why not do it yourself?"

"I don't care to go ashore in Port Royal," said Jack loftily. "Too much in demand."

Shaftoe laughed out loud, head back. "A warrant, is it? Aye, I know that one. Who'll you send?"

"Felton's an old hand at that sort of thing," said Jack, chuckling: Shaftoe's amusement was contagious, and besides, he'd cheered up amazingly, alone up here with only Jack for company. "Used to be a lawyer's clerk: you'd be amazed what comes out of that man's mouth, Latin and Greek and the like. Speaks Spanish, too, which might come in handy."

"Let me go with him," said Shaftoe. "No one's after me, not in Port Royal, and I reckon I can call to mind most of the _Santa Ana_ 's crew: maybe a few of 'em are worth a bob or two. Though, Jack, I wouldn't lay on any man in his right mind paying much for Don Esteban, not without his ship and his cargo."

Jack shrugged. "Worth a try, Mr Shaftoe: worth a -- oh, I _do_ beg your pardon: am I boring you?" For Shaftoe was yawning, and the stretch of his neck was peculiarly distracting.

"Sorry, mate: been a long day," said Shaftoe indistinctly.

Jack bit back the words _then let's to bed_. "You'd better turn in, Mr Shaftoe," he said severely. "No, go on: I'll be down in a while." And he watched, unsmiling, as Shaftoe swung himself back over the edge, hands firm on the shrouds, giving Jack a single unfathomable look before he disappeared in the direction of the deck.

At last, at last, a moment of solitude: a moment of privacy, for the images and ghosts of Shaftoe -- never mind the living, breathing reality -- were dancing so in Jack Sparrow's lively mind that he was aching with them.


	31. impofperversity | An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter Thirty

  


Felton turned out to be an older fellow, so sinewy and desiccated that Jack could easily imagine him venturing too close to an unguarded flame and simply combusting, with a gentle puff; even his hair looked like tinder, and he smelt of ashes. He looked quite utterly useless in any hypothetical fight. To compensate, Jack had suggested taking Burton along as well, since he was an impressively strapping lad in spite of his Unnatural Tendencies, and Sparrow had agreed.

Now, the three of them stood crowded into Sparrow’s cabin, as he fussed over the note they were to take with them. He’d spent an inordinate amount of time over it, in Jack’s opinion, muttering and crossing out and re-drafting, then reading it to himself under his breath in a rapid mumble, accompanied by a streaming flicker of facial expressions, as though he were acting it out to some invisible audience.

A final, florid curlicue of ink, and he was finished; he blew upon it carefully, and Jack’s eyes were (irritatingly, and yet irresistibly) drawn to pursed red lips, and the Imp helpfully converted the pose, into a teasingly puckered kiss. Just in case the parallel wasn’t _utterly_ obvious. Damn creature.

“Are we done?” demanded Jack, impatiently, and Sparrow glanced up at him from his lowered viewpoint, leaning over the table, without ceasing his gentle blowing.

_Heeheehee, JackJackJack! An’ you know what that looks like, eh and don’t you so, ain't it just like when a girl’s got her pretty mouth south, all around and ‘bout your—_

“Shut UP,” Jack begged, mostly under his breath, but not enough that they didn’t all look at him as if he had something to say. “Nothing,” he amended sulkily, “Just, as I said, are we done?”

“Nearly,” said Sparrow, mercifully relaxing his wicked mouth. He folded the paper in three, lit a candle, drew a red wax block from his writing-box, and dripped a shining pool of wax over the edge of the letter; then, eyes sparkling with mischief, he reached across for Don Esteban’s ring, and used it as a seal. For which purpose it seemed admirably suited.

“There; Don Alejandro might notice that, eh, and we can keep this pretty keepsake for future uses,” he said.

“I should take it, anyway,” said Jack, and held out his hand; after a moment’s consideration, Sparrow tossed it to him, and Jack slipped it on his finger. Still warm from the wax. Still warm from Sparrow’s ink-black fingertips.

“Right then,” said Jack. “Come on, lads, let’s go play messenger-boys.”

Sparrow walked with them up to the deck, reminding them for the twentieth time that they were simply to deliver his message, and answer any questions politely (“and yet, fearsomely, gents; you must make it clear that we’re quite utterly ruthless. Which, you know, we are, of course”) and then get the hell out of there.

“No worries, Captain,” assured Burton blithely, and Jack grinned. “Don’t go on so; ‘tis easy as taking sweetmeats from a baby,” he said, and he clapped Jack Sparrow on his shoulder (most impressed with himself for this show of careless, _uncomplicated_ mateship; the look that they exchanged seemed for once to be clear of strange, half-submerged messages, seemed to be a simple, friendly, even _affectionate_ , goodbye) and swung down onto the ropes of the sea-ladder.

*

As Espinosa had said, everyone seemed to know the whereabouts of Don Alejandro de Braxas. He lived in one of Port Royal’s better houses, if not a grand mansion; it at least had glazed windows, and a second storey, and a garden of sorts. A deep verandah ran along the front of the house, and a number of rather villainous looking fellows (it sometimes seemed to Jack that Spaniards were quite perfectly designed to look villainous, lucky bastards) lounged there in the shade, talking or dicing; they stopped as the three men came up the path, and watched them, silently.

“Good morrow, gentlemen,” said Felton in his rasping, burnt voice, and he inclined his head politely. “We bear a message for the master of the house.” And when there was no immediate reply, he repeated this, in Spanish. At which, a large and oily gent rose to his feet, and walked slowly, deliberately, inside; and emerged several long, silent and awkward minutes later, with a gentleman whom Jack could only assume to be Don Alejandro. He was tall, and imposing, though surely past three score years; his hair was silvered, and beneath finely cut clothes of rich black he stood straight and strong. His eyes were dark as Sparrow’s, but glimmered flatly in the shade of the verandah, and he did not smile.

Felton bowed again, with an obsequiousness that turned Jack’s stomach. “Don Alejandro de Braxas?” he enquired, and got a narrowing of eyes and a small nod in return.

“My master sends his respectful regards, and this information, for your perusal,” said Felton.

_Master!_ thought Jack. _Damned if I’ll call any man my master._ Toadying little creature. He fought back an impatient sigh as the Spaniard took the proffered document, and (with nary a glance at the seal, dammit) opened it and began to read, his face impassive. There was a heavy quiet as he did so, no sound but breeze and birdsong in the trees.

At last he looked up, and in barely accented English, said to Felton:

“Tell your master this; that he is a greedy blackguard, and more, he is a fool; every man here knows that the _Santa Ana_ went down with all hands, not four days since. She was my ship; and Don Esteban de Espinosa was my good friend, my brother; and I will not let some filthy pirate profit from my loss, and my grief.”

Jack was rather impressed with this opening gambit, a claim that the hostage was dead anyway, and that there was no need to care one way or another. Good starting position.

Felton screwed up his face, and bobbed his head again, and began, “Señor, to my eternal regret, I fear I must advise you that you have been sadly misin—”

But Jack, simultaneously getting over his admiration of de Braxas’ manoeuvre, suddenly realising how very rude the man’d been about Jack Sparrow, and becoming irritated beyond bearing with Felton’s relentlessly subservient approach, blurted out over the top of the smaller man’s words: “Our Captain’s no fool, though blackguard he may well be.”

Eyes turned to him, and Felton faltered. Jack squared his shoulders, and went on: “Your man ain’t dead, not yet; we got him, and half his crew. Though the filthy ingrates turned upon us, and tried to take our ship, so they deserve no better than this. But he’s alive all right; so, d’ye want him, or no?”

The silence had changed, somehow; it had come alive with sparkly threat, and Jack could see smiles playing about the corners of more than one mouth.

“Oh,” said de Braxas, softly, “I want him.”

“All right then,” said Jack, not looking at Felton, who was throwing visual daggers his way. “I b’lieve our price is stated in that there paper. So we’ll be on our way, and await your… delivery.” He gave a brief nod of his head, and turned to go, and Felton started babbling some polite nonsense, but the Don spoke over the top of it; barely loud enough to hear, but with such a tone that Felton fell silent.

“The way of these things, I believe,” he said, “is that you provide me with some… sign of good faith. Some token, to prove your claim and intention.”

Jack did not bother to look at Felton; instead, he turned back and held up his left hand, with the ring sitting loose on his smallest finger. “Here,” he said.

“What is that?” said de Braxas, squinting as if in faint distaste, and Jack brashly walked forward, onto the verandah, not a foot away from him, the back of his hand turned to the man’s face.

“Here,” he said. “It’s his, ain’t it?”

Still peering—gently, calmly—de Braxas took hold of Jack’s wrist, holding it still. And then: “Why, yes,” he said, “I believe it is.”

He said no more than that, gave no other sign, but it was enough. Like some well-drilled flock of birds, wheeling in synchrony, the men closed in behind Jack, and the first of them met Jack’s hand on the hilt of his sword, and they wrestled, silently, Jack fighting to unsheathe it, his opponent equally determined that he should not. De Braxas’ hand had turned into iron about his other wrist, and then Jack felt a muzzle cold against his neck, and heard roared oaths from Burton, and a ring of steel, and then a clatter; Burton had been rapidly persuaded to drop his weapon.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Fuck.

Jack could feel beads of sweat breaking out on his lip. De Braxas’ fingers had relaxed none of their grip, and Jack’s hand was purpling, slowly, as his wrist was relentlessly crushed. He tried to pull his hand away, and the gun at his neck jabbed him viciously.

“Stand still,” said de Braxas, “and listen. All of you, listen. Do you know what this ring tells me?”

Jack decided this was what they called a rhetorical question, and restrained himself.

“This ring was a gift. A gift, from me. To my very. Very. Dear friend. And when I gave it to him, he was most appreciative. For it is no mere bauble; it has been in my family for a long time, a very long time. And he said to me that he would treasure it; and that it would never be lost to him.”

“But,” said Jack, and got a kick in the ankle bone for his trouble.

“He said to me,” said de Braxas, and he had paled, and his eyes glittered, red-lined in the pallor of his face—“he _said to me_ that this ring would leave his living hand only in company with his finger.”

“He took it off!” cried Jack, overwhelmed by the revolting, sneaking perfidy of Don fucking Esteban.

“He would never— _never_ —take it off. Either you have killed him, or…” A crack came in de Braxas’ façade, and a shadow of disgust slithered across his features. “Or you have taken his finger.”

“We did no such thing!” shouted Jack, pulling back on his hand, ignoring the push of the gun, suddenly, vilely sickened by his situation, by these people, by this lunacy; and Felton was gabbling behind him, a stream of pleading Spanish, and why the hell hadn’t Jack just shut up and let the little weasel talk? “He took the bloody thing off all by himself; and he said, he said that you were his friend, that you would pay; and he said that he would repay you, after, he said to tell you that. To tell you that he’s still” (the words stuck in Jack’s throat, and he choked them out) “still a man of honour.”

De Braxas’ face softened, just slightly, and Jack felt quite utterly certain that when he said that they were “very good friends”, he was being entirely euphemistic. Bloody Don Esteban. No surprises there. So this fellow had bought him his ship, set him up to go off on his mad search, and Don Esteban had paid him back in other favours. Repulsive; but at least it indicated a depth of relationship between the two. Jack forced himself to breathe calmly.

“Really,” he said, in what he hoped was an even tone, “Don Esteban spoke very highly of you; he prizes your friendship above any other. And he hopes—he hopes that you still hold sufficient regard for him, to help him in his troubles.”

A pause. And then the Spaniard said, “I do. And you, my friend: how much does your Captain value _you_? That is the unanswered question. Perhaps your colleagues would be so kind as to go and ask it of him. It’s my hope that he values you enough to accept you in payment for my countrymen. All of them. And you will see none of my gold, gentlemen. Let me make that clear. Not—one—piece.”

Jack could hear Burton shouting at him as they were driven out of the garden: “Don’t you worry, Jack, we’ll be back, we’ll get you out, don’t you worry, mate!”

And then, for the second day in a row, he was smacked into unconsciousness.


	32. An Alchemical Prescription,  31

  
  
"Mr Shaftoe did _what_?" said Jack Sparrow, striving to keep his voice even.

"Went up to the Don, and give 'im a good look at that ring," said Burton, shuffling his feet. He looked up at Jack. "Honest, Captain, we din't know what 'e was about, or I'd've stopped 'im."

Jack nodded. Tempting though it was to blame Burton -- or Felton, who seemed to have shrivelled even further into himself as the sorry tale came out -- he could not deny that Shaftoe, for all his wit and warmth, had a reckless streak a mile wide. Part of his charm: but this was not at all charming, and Jack was appalled by the cold sinking feeling in his gut.

"Go on," he said. "What then?"

"The Don got a hold of him," said Burton, "an' 'e said Don Esteban wouldn't have given up that ring, no, not without we cut it off 'im."

"Bloody savages," opined Jack. "And what was Mr Shaftoe doing, all this time?"

"Trying to talk his way out of it, Captain," said Felton, at the same time as Burton said, "Fighting 'em off, o' course."

That image made Jack smile: he had been frowning since Burton and Felton had first been sighted, hurrying down the quayside as though the hounds of hell were after 'em, and no sign of Jack Shaftoe. ("He's run," Bootstrap'd declared, and Jack had sworn at him; because why now, just when things were going so well? And yet, what else to think? 'Twas almost a relief to hear their story, and know that Jack Shaftoe had not gone of his own accord.)

"And you left him there?" said Jack, trying not to sound too accusatory.

"They 'ad 'im pinned," said Burton, hanging his head.

"Don Alejandro," said Felton stiffly, "bids us ask, how much do you value Mr Shaftoe? For he proposes to hold him hostage for all the _Santa Ana_ 's crew, as well as her captain -- who, I must reveal, may have been rather, er, _dearer_ to Don Alejandro than he implied."

"I see," said Jack, tugging on a beard-braid. "Very well, gentlemen: I'm sorry for what happened, but I ain't about to take it out of your hides. Off you go. Though, Mr Felton? Don't go far. I'll be needing you to speak with the Don again." And then to Bootstrap, "Bring me Don Esteban."

Alone once more, Jack poured himself a medicinal tot of rum. It did not ease the ache. _Shaftoe imperilled, because of Jack_. And, hard on the heels of that thought, the more practical _Jack Shaftoe in danger because he couldn't keep his bloody mouth shut_ (which thought, or perhaps merely the _memory_ of Shaftoe's warm red mouth, brought a flickering grin to Jack's face).

And how much, after all, _was_ Jack Shaftoe worth? Jack did not care to answer this, not even to himself: but he owed Shaftoe, that much was certain.

His prisoner, delivered by Bootstrap in chilly silence, was almost unrecognisable as the previous evening's gaunt, spineless dinner guest. Don Esteban swept haughtily into the cabin and flung himself, without being invited, into a chair, eyeing Jack with evident amusement.

"You have paid a visit to my good friend Don Alejandro, I hear?" he enquired.

"Aye," said Jack grimly, staring down the Spaniard until Don Esteban looked away.

"And ... his terms?" said Espinosa, rather less confidently.

"His terms are of no interest to me," said Jack, drawing a knife from his belt and laying it on the table between them. "You, sir, are a liar and a coward. You knew full well that whoever presented that ring to your _friend_ ran a mortal risk: you knew what Don Alejandro would think, seeing it. And whatever harm comes to Jack Shaftoe, mate, will be visited tenfold 'pon you. Tenfold. Savvy?"

Jack's voice, low and threatening, had become a growl by the end of this speech. Don Esteban, frowning, cupped his ear and began to speak: but looked at Jack's face, and said nothing. He had evidently got the gist of it, even if the details eluded him.

"So, Don Esteban," said Jack more cheerfully. "What do you propose we should do to restore the equilibrium, eh?"

"Carlos," ventured Don Esteban, his Castilian lisp rather more pronounced than usual.

Jack cocked his head. "Speak up, man!"

"Carlos Montoya," said the Spaniard. "My lieutenant. He is the son of Don Alejandro's blessed sister, may God and all the saints rest her soul. Send _him_ to treat with his, how you say, his uncle; send him to say I am alive, and have taken no harm from you, and perhaps he will let your Mr Shaftoe go free." He paused, his eyes searching Jack's face for something. "He means much to you, yes?"

"I like him better than I like you, mate," Jack said, forbearing to add that this could be said of a great many others.

The Spaniard laughed politely. "You are a lucky man, Captain Sparrow."

"And you're a whole one," said Jack, with his fiercest smile. "But so much can change, eh?"

* * *

Jack Shaftoe's head hurt tremendously, and there was a roiling in his stomach, which might have been due to concussion, or the foul water his captors had left for him, or nauseating regret at his own impetuosity. Why hadn't he let Felton (arse-licking little toad that he was) do the talking? Why had he thrust Don fucking Esteban's bloody ring right in the face of the bloke who'd given it to him, instead of keeping his distance? Why had he offered to come along in the first place?

_Why, to make Jack Sparrow think well of you, Jack-my-Jack_ , murmured the Imp. He could almost see it flitting around in the darkness of Don Alejandro's cellar -- a dank and echoey place, which Jack would've loved to explore if only he hadn't been fettered to the wall. A cellar with such fixtures -- fetters and brackets and the like -- did not bode well for his chances of escape. And escape he must, for surely Jack Sparrow would see the folly of exchanging _thirty grown men_ (Spaniards, but even so they could haul on ropes or man the sweeps) for one Vagabond. Never mind Burton's cheery farewell: there was no hope of rescue, and so Jack must rescue himself.

If only his head didn't hurt so much. If only the bloody Imp would shut the fuck up about Jack Sparrow, and Jack's foolish desire to impress him, and the sordid roots -- dreams of perversion and Unnatural Urges, not to mention the memory of that Kiss -- of said desire, and of what a waste it'd be to die here without ever having availed himself of --

Jack pinched himself, and made a face because he'd found another bruise: Don Alejandro's thugs had not been gentle with him. And he was not going to think about Sparrow, or the _Black Pearl_ , or the treasure map, or anything: he was going to rest, and heal, and trust in Providence and Fortune to present him with the required opportunities of freedom, merriment and revenge. None of which had anything to do with Jack Sparrow. Oh no.

He must have slept, because the advent of light and sound and movement awoke him, and he sat up, blinking and clutching at his head.

"You are sore, Mr Shaftoe, but it is nothing to the pain that awaits you," announced Don Alejandro de Braxas by way of greeting, holding a lanthorn before him as he descended the creaky wooden stairs.

Jack did not care to dignify this with a response, but he looked up and met the Spaniard's gaze, and tried not to let his thoughts show.

"Your Captain does not value you, it seems," said Don Alejandro, looming above him like a bad theatrickal effect: the lanthorn, behind him now, cast his face into shadow. "I am sorry for you."

"You don't _sound_ very sorry," Jack observed. "But it's true, I'm of no value to him -- hardly know him, really -- you'll need a better payment than me, if you want to see your, your _friend_ again."

"Captain Sparrow is not your friend?" enquired Don Alejandro suspiciously.

Jack was about to contradict him, but remembered that 'friend' seemed to have quite different connotations when translated from the Spanish. Or perhaps it was a universal code amongst Don Esteban and his sort. Either way, Jack did not care to admit to being Jack Sparrow's catamite; there was not a grain of truth in it, after all, and he saw no profit in lying.

That thought, though, led to another: and he said boldly, "No: but Don Esteban ... admires him. Greatly." And he leered, to make his meaning plain.

Don Alejandro drew back as though Jack were some poisonous insect. "You lie!"

"Not at all," said Jack, much cheered by this response. "And what's more, your _friend_ was ever so friendly to _me_ , when I was on the _Santa Ana_. But never mind, eh? He was probably just missing your company."

He'd expected the kick, and rolled with it, though it sent a flurry of pain to every extremity.

"You are lying," said de Braxas again, more harshly. "Don Esteban is most dear to me! Dearer than --"

"Don Alejandro!" came a voice from above: then a gabble of Spanish. Jack, greedily eyeing the dagger in his captor's belt, was almost sure that he caught his own name: but his ears were ringing, and perhaps he was mistaken.

Don Alejandro swore, and turned on his heel: over his shoulder he said, "We will talk later, Mr Shaftoe. For now, you may meditate on the sin of lying, no?" And, picking up the lanthorn, he was gone, and Jack was alone in the dark with more bruises to add to his catalogue.

He had just settled into a comfortable slough of self-pity (tempered with patience, for they'd have to come back sooner or later, and perhaps he could get the old man talking again) when the door at the top of the stairs opened once more.

"What's this?" enquired Jack as he was hauled to his feet and unfastened: but either the Don's henchmen did not speak English, or they had been instructed not to speak it to _him_ , for no explanation was forthcoming. Jack thought he could probably figure it out for himself. Sparrow -- or some of his officers -- had come to parley, and they wanted to see Jack alive: were probably already counting out the money, out of Jack's own share but nevertheless worth paying, and --

There on the verandah stood Don Alejandro, tall and dark and ominous, and before him was Carlos Montoya, late of the _Santa Ana_ , and looking remarkably healthy and well-fed (Jack thought bitterly) for a prisoner. He was speaking to de Braxas, but he paused to peer at Jack and nod, distractedly, before launching once more into his impassioned speech.

Felton was there behind him, staring at Jack in mingled horror and reproof: and Burton, nodding and winking as though trying to communicate an entire play in dumb-show. Jack nodded and winked and smiled back, though nodding redoubled his headache.

"Mr Shaftoe," said Montoya, looking down his nose at Jack (a manoeuvre which involved tilting his head back, as he was a head shorter), "Captain Sparrow has sent me to speak with my uncle, for he desires your safe return."

Under other circumstances (such as, for example, one in which he was not being restrained by two greasy, garlicsome villains) Jack would've slapped him for that look, but sheer relief made him magnanimous. "Happy to hear it, Señor," he said. "Shall I --"

De Braxas made a small gesture, and the hands on Jack's arms tightened cruelly. "And I," he announced, "I am willing to come to an accord: and I shall send your Captain a token of my intentions, to say it is so."

Montoya looked surprised, and said something, too fast for Jack to follow. Don Alejandro, unsmiling, answered him. Though Jack did not understand a word of it, he watched Felton, who knew Spanish: and saw Felton grow pale.

high-speed volley ...   



	33. impofperversity | An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter Thirty Two

  


Jack generally had an instinct for these things; a tingling fore-knowledge, and whether it came to him through his own unwitting senses, or through the graces of the Imp (but that disloyal sprite appeared to’ve fled rather precipitously, so was perhaps not the source) he was unsure; at any rate, something in those foreign words, something in the tightened grip of the two great meaty creatures that held him, something in Felton’s sickened face, all conspired to tell him that he was in some nasty, nasty trouble right now. His heart quickened, blood surged despite himself, and he desperately tried to wrench free, but to no avail.

De Braxas looked over, blankly, at the commotion. “What’s this, Mr Shaftoe? Could it be that you speak our tongue, after all?”

“No,” said Jack, “but I’ve spent enough time around villains to read their signs, whatever their language; and I should tell you now, though I’ve told you before—p’rhaps you weren’t _listening_?—that I’m naught to Jack Sparrow, and harming me ain’t going to change his mind none.”

Carlos Montoya smiled a little. “I think you underestimate yourself, Jack,” he said. “Jack Sparrow was most insistent that you should be returned, unharmed. Perhaps… a little _too_ insistent.”

Jack’s heart warmed, momentarily, at the thought that after all, Sparrow did appear to hold friendly feelings for him; then flared hotter, shamefully hotter, as he realised what Montoya was insinuating with his _too insistent_ ; and then, oh then, it froze cold with the understanding that, if they believed that he was more to Jack Sparrow than a man should be—why, then, he was the perfect bargaining chip. The scales were balanced. Don Esteban and himself. It would all come down to which man, de Braxas or Sparrow, could be induced to crack first.

Jack Sparrow, for all his wildness, for all his flaunting every rule laid down by Church or State, had shown Jack not a single indication that he held the lives of others in anything but the kindest regard. Look at his smug, unmarked prisoner, now! Look at the fact that he’d halted their murderous pyrotechnics at the rescue of the _Santa Ana_ , the moment that the white flag had been raised; and had he picked off a single pirate in the water? He had not. He had merely picked up all those bloody Spaniards and treated them like honoured guests.

Jack Sparrow was soft.

Alejandro de Braxas was not.

Jack knew whose prisoner he’d rather be. And it wasn’t the one who stood before him now, fingering a long dagger.

“You wear no rings,” mused de Braxas, thoughtfully. “Not upon your fingers, nor your ears.”

Jack said nothing.

“Perhaps you keep your gold in other places?” said the Spaniard, and he plucked gently at the front of Jack’s shirt, and brought up his dagger, and slit the dirty fabric down from neck to navel. Jack, unutterably relieved to find his guts still contained within his belly, closed his eyes, and felt his nostrils flare; felt soft air on his chest as de Braxas pulled the torn remnants of his shirt aside, looking for, God alone knew. Maybe just looking. Pervert.

“No…” his captor murmured. “So how… how, I wonder… am I to show faith, and prove to your Captain that you are here with me, and in need of his help?”

“They know I’m here,” said Jack, tilting his chin at the _Pearl_ ’s deputation. “Just send ‘em back, just—”

De Braxas tutted, and shook his head. “No, no, Mr Shaftoe; we are businessmen. We have rules to follow. Traditions.” And he clicked his fingers, and called in Spanish for something; something which rounded the corner of the verandah a moment later, and chilled Jack to the bone. He threw a glance, a desperate glance, at Burton, but the lad had a half-dozen pistols levelled at his head; he looked grey-white, and he was mumbling something under his breath.

“Señor,” Felton interrupted, “this is not necessary, I assure you, and more, sir, it is not likely to help us to a speedy resolution of this matter; I beg you, reconsider, show mercy. Has Señor Montoya not convinced you that we have treated his men with nothing but that same consideration, that same quality? Don Esteban is well, not a hair on his head has been—”

“I cannot say the same for our friend Inigo,” said Montoya, tightly. “Who this man, here” (pointing at Burton) “shot through the heart. So you are not entirely merciful. Only perhaps when it suits.”

“You were trying to take over the fucking ship!” cried Jack, incensed, and trying to take attention from poor Burton, who now had bright red spots of colour on his drained face, as the men surrounding him looked at him with new, and even less friendly, eyes.

“Ah well, then, it was doubtless deserved,” said de Braxas; “And here, we have the reverse; you, Mr Shaftoe, were trying to extort monies. And this, I assure you, is equally deserved.”

And Jack forced himself to look straight at the implements that had been brought forward onto the verandah; a well-used chopping block, and a small, bright-edged axe.

“Oh, don’t, don’t,” cried Burton, surging forward, and there were shouts of warning from the armed men, and Jack shouted, "Shut up, Burton, shut up you idiot,” for he knew that it wouldn’t help, and he didn’t want Burton’s death on his hands. He had sudden and horrid faith in de Braxas’ determination to see this through.

“I was very… upset, to see my friend’s ring,” said de Braxas. “And even more upset by the boorish manner in which you, Mr Shaftoe, showed it to me; and I think… yes, I’m sure; it would most definitely make me feel better to remove the digit with which you offended me so.”

Jack felt sick and hot and cold and shivery, and glad that the strong hands on his arms held him up; and then (oh, how sweet to have his company again) the Imp whispered to him, _Yay, Jackling, he ain’t takin’ your whole warm hand, ain’t that a good thing?_

Oh, the creature was perverse, to its very core. But it helped; and as Jack was pushed to his knees, and his hand forced up onto the block (he felt the rough, chipped surface of the block with every fingertip, every one, and knew that it was the last thing he would ever feel with that sweet full complement) he felt oddly calm; he did not think it was bravery, as such, but in some way a curiosity, for such a thing had never been visited on him before, and he’d very little idea what it might be like; but he was quite, quite certain that to struggle now, to unman himself with pleas and tears, would be to no avail whatsoever, and would provide nothing but enjoyment to these monstrous men. So he would not do it.

Jack closed his eyes; he would think of something else, would think of something strong and right and wonderful, he would think of, oh God, he would think of holding his little sons, and their fists tugging at his hair, and their shrieking laughter, and he would think of their poor departed mama—oh, no, not that, how depressing—he would think of the smiling mouths of women, their gasps and kisses and _thud_ the sound the door made behind Jack Sparrow when he’d pushed him against it and felt that great balloon of need in his chest, in his heart, when he’d put his mouth to Jack Sparrow’s and, and, _oh Christ Jack why are you letting them do this to me, you bastard, you bastard, you—_

The world seemed to slow as his fingers were forced apart; the blood in his veins was surging and roaring, deafening him, and the sound of Burton and Felton shouting and raging behind him was dull and torpid. Don Alejandro squatted before him, and put a hand to Jack’s chin; he whispered, “ _Ábrase los ojos_ ; open your eyes, sir”, turning Jack’s face so that he could see his hand spread there on the pitted wood, the swarthy hands holding it there.

“You are a smart man, Mr Shaftoe,” he said, softly, and he kissed his own fingertip, and put it to the nail of Jack’s smallest finger, as though kissing a child’s hurt; and then he nodded to the man who stood, waiting, with his axe, and—

Sound first; just a dull thud of axe on wood, as though Jack’s flesh had been of no consequence at all, had been no hindrance to its sharp passage; a dead silence; and then a bright, hot, white pain, too sharp, too much for a body to bear, it seemed, for Jack’s body transmuted the message of agony to one of simple fiery heat. And it was not until his eyes registered the sight that the truth of it hit him, in a vile wave of nausea, as he saw the axe still embedded, saw his finger ending at its second joint, hard up against the steel, saw slow half-circles of blood, translucent in the sunlight, pulsing up over the metal blade.

Saw de Braxas, taking out a handkerchief, bend down and pick up Jack’s fingertip in lace-edged cambric, a fastidious and faintly repulsed expression on his face. It was so small, so white; they had taken no more than the first joint, not even an inch of flesh.

The Imp, seeing that Jack was in no state to discuss the matter, determined to stage a coup in Jack’s temporarily unattended cortex; and, through Jack’s gasping mouth, it murmured, with a faint tone of incredulous disparagement, “Is that it?”

De Braxas drew in a long breath, and his nostrils flared. “Not so smart, then,” he said, and the axe was pulled ringingly from the block and before Jack could even protest his innocence, it descended again.

Again.

Pain, oh god, what an insubstantial word; ‘twas so very much more, this second time, as though all his body's cunning artifices and coping methodologies, carefully brought into play at the first cut, had themselves been severed with this stroke. A toothache was pain, a kick in the shins or a punch to the kidneys or a broken nose were pain, and Jack had no fear of them, knew that he could live through them with gritted teeth and rolled eyes. But this, oh this, poured over and through him, shrivelled him and burnt him, and he knew he would be afraid of it for the rest of his life. Sweat poured from him, and his stomach convulsed, convulsed, and he vomited, bile splashing the verandah and spattering on his knees, and he would have fallen but was held, still, in place.

“Enough?” enquired de Braxas, and he signalled another of his men. Jack could smell burning embers, and it flinched him upright, _oh God not more not more_ , and was told, “For your own good; presuming you are alive tomorrow to care,” as a red hot iron was applied to the bloodied knuckle.

Jack would’ve screamed, but he could not draw breath.

De Braxas gathered the second offering, and folded the two carefully in his handkerchief. He gave it to Montoya, who looked confused.

“I am not returning,” he said, as though that were patently obvious.

“Yes, you are,” his uncle told him. “To prove that I am a man of my word. And my word is this: you are all to be set free immediately. And every hour which passes before I see you, all of you, safe at my door, Mr Shaftoe here will relive his experience. Is that clear to you all?” he said, gazing blankly at Felton and Burton. “And I say this also; should your Captain consider reciprocating in kind, tell him that one single hurt to my countrymen; _one_ ; and I shall have this man dismembered in the slowest way possible. And there will be no further negotiation. After all… Mr Shaftoe tells me that perhaps Don Esteban has not held me in such high regard as I might have wished.”

This speech rolled redly over Jack, whose vision was blurred and full of stars, whose heartbeat still felt shaky, whose hand felt huge and heavy and burning hot. But he heard the words _Mr Shaftoe will relive his experience_ ; and he prayed with all his heart that Jack Sparrow was not a stubborn man.


	34. An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter Thirty-Three

  
Stone was on watch, and as soon as Jack heard his call he was up on deck, eager to see Shaftoe's return, and perhaps to tease him -- just a little -- for needing to be rescued like a princess in a romance. Oh, Jack Shaftoe would owe _him_ , now: and the thought of possible repayments blossomed warm and golden in Jack's gut, driving out the cold ache that had lingered there.

But something was wrong. There were three men, all right, coming up the quay towards the _Black Pearl_ , but already Jack could see that none of them was Shaftoe. Felton was there, jogging to keep up with the other two: and Burton was striding along, practically hauling Carlos Montoya behind him. Montoya, oddly, did not seem to mind it. As the trio approached, Jack could see his teeth glint in a smile.

"Well, Mr Montoya, I wasn't expecting you back so soon," he said as the Spaniard was marched up the gangplank. "Couldn't keep away, I expect."

Whatever had happened was bad, very bad. Felton looked as though he might be about to faint: pathetic, really. And Burton looked grimmer than Jack had ever seen him.

"I am here to convey the terms of Don Alejandro de Braxas," announced Montoya, shrugging out of Burton's grasp.

"Terms?" enquired Jack silkily, flicking a look at Burton, and another at Felton, that bade them to silence for the moment. "I don't see Mr Shaftoe, whose return I believe I requested in exchange for your freedom. Perhaps you forgot to bring him with you?"

"I forgot nothing," declared Montoya, drawing his handkerchief -- his red-splotched handkerchief: Jack entertained the brief hope that Burton had inflicted a bloody nose upon him -- from the pocket of his coat. "It is true, I have not brought your Mr Shaftoe. And yet ..."

Looking back on this moment, Jack would remember noticing that Burton had paled and turned away: that Bootstrap had appeared from somewhere, and drawn Felton aside, and was interrogating him in a fierce whisper: that there was a bloodstain on Montoya's coat, just where the handkerchief must have rested. But for now, every scrap of his conscious attention was focussed on the Spaniard, who was holding the lace-edged cambric square -- there was something wrapped in it, something small -- in the palm of one dirty hand; who was, with deliberate flourish, unfolding it to reveal its contents.

There was a terrible blank endless moment in which Jack did not make sense of what he was seeing. Two small pale objects, smeared with blood that was still wetly red, neither of them larger than the tip --

Recognition came like a blow, crimson and deafening and hard enough to stop his breath. He felt the blood leave his face, and gather somewhere in the pit of his throat, choking back, thank God, the question that Montoya would've taken such pleasure in answering: felt his hands clench at his sides, and Montoya's greedy gaze on him, drinking in every telltale sign of his rage and horror and disgust.

Jack fought down that response, and plastered as nonchalant an expression as he could manage over it all. _Oh fuck_ , he let himself think, but only that: the rest would have to wait. He thrust away the thought _poor bloody Shaftoe_ , and the scarlet unreasoning rage, and the wail of _he's mine! Mine!_ , and the surge of nausea at the sight of Jack Shaftoe's finger lying there all bloodless and severed and mutely announcing de Braxas's inventive cruelty.

"The terms?" said Jack Sparrow, his voice even and cool; and though he did not move, Montoya stepped back a pace.

"My ... my uncle sends me to tell you that he requires the safe return of all our men, every one of them," he said, stammering slightly. "And further, that every hour you delay will mean that Mr Shaftoe ... that Mr Shaftoe ..."

"He'll do it again, Jack, the fucking savage," Burton burst out, turning a look of such menace upon the Spaniard that Montoya could not finish his speech, but swallowed hard.

"I see," said Jack, aware -- as if watching from far away -- that his mind, his brain, had somehow divided itself into three parts. There was the part that was dealing, stony-faced and _businesslike_ , with the sweating Montoya, facing him down, not letting him see that this was of any consequence. There was another part of him that wanted to howl and hit and cause havoc (but might be assuaged, temporarily, with strong drink). And there was the Jack Sparrow who'd won fortune, fame and freedom in the -- literally -- cutthroat milieu of the Spanish Main. _That_ part of Jack was cold and clear, sharp as a new-whetted knife and busybusybusy plotting a vengeance worthy of Jack Shaftoe.

If he were still alive to witness it.

"Mr Turner," said Jack, still staring down Carlos Montoya.

"Captain?"

"Fetch me Don Esteban, will you?" To Montoya he did not speak, but only held out his hand.

Montoya's lips curved in a supercilious sneer (Christ, how Jack longed to beat that expression off his face) as he deposited the grisly package on Jack's palm. Jack wanted to recoil from the sticky dampness, but Shaftoe had borne something vastly more monstrous, and to shrink from its result would be a betrayal. And besides, how strange, how nightmarish and absurd, to hold a part of Jack Shaftoe -- a cold dead part -- here in his hand.

A flurry of footsteps announced Espinosa's arrival. "Am I to assume, Captain Sparrow, that --"

"Be quiet," Jack snapped: and Don Esteban obeyed.

"The two of you," said Jack, speaking loudly and quickly so that his fury did not choke him, "will go ahead to Don Alejandro de Braxas, with word that I accept his terms unconditionally. Your crew will join you within the hour, guided by Mr Felton here, and sufficient of my men to ensure that Mr Shaftoe may be conveyed safely to the _Black Pearl_ without further ... incident."

Don Esteban looked bewildered, and glanced over at his lieutenant.

"He has begun with a finger," said Montoya urgently, in Spanish.

"Pardon?" said Don Esteban, tilting his head.

Montoya snarled, and held up his hand, and gestured graphically.

"Aha!" said Espinosa, nodding and smiling, though the smile evaporated swiftly enough when he caught Jack's eye.

"Off my ship. _Now_ ," ordered Jack, hand on his sword-hilt. "And, Don Esteban?"

"What is it?"

"Tenfold," said Jack, and stretched his mouth in a parody of a smile.

The two Spaniards took themselves off in a great hurry -- as if, mused Jack, they were surprised at his forbearance. He was surprised at it himself. A vast cold rage rose in him at the thought of de Braxas, thinking he'd outwitted Jack Sparrow: thinking he'd --

"Captain?" said Bootstrap: then, "Jack?"

"I'm right sorry for't, Captain," said Burton urgently. "I never --"

"I know, mate," said Jack, looking the man in the eye. "Did Mr Shaftoe -- no, no matter. Gentlemen?"

He swept his gaze over the little group that had formed around him at the head of the gangplank: Bootstrap, of course; Burton and Felton; Cooper and Stone and Gibbs; Martingale, who by the appalled look on his face was just hearing the news. Jack curled his fingers around the ghastly trophy in his pocket, and wished that it still held a ghost of Shaftoe's warmth.

"Gentlemen," he repeated. "We've much to do, and swiftly. Are you with me?"

* * *

Don Alejandro's men had cleaned the verandah, and incidentally Jack Shaftoe, by the simple expedient of tipping a couple of buckets of water over everything. It had not been entirely effective. Jack could still smell bile, and blood, and the sharp scent of his own fear. They'd returned him to the cellar, and he lay on the floor, unfettered now; which would've been vaguely insulting -- it took more than _that_ to break a Shaftoe! -- if only he could have summoned the energy to feel anything other than the tremendous fiery ache in his left hand, and the damp chill that permeated his whole body.

Not that he was whole, any more. Had Montoya reached the _Black Pearl_ yet? What had Jack Sparrow thought, when Jack's poor amputated finger was presented to him? Was he, Jack Shaftoe, worth as much to Sparrow as the captain and crew of the _Santa Ana_? Was he worth as much to Sparrow as Don Esteban was to Don Alejandro? Almost certainly not: and yet, he might have been, if ...

"Oh God," Jack murmured into the crook of his elbow, "oh God, let him come quick."

There was nothing to be ashamed of. This agony would unman anybody. No man could suffer this and not plead for mercy, rescue, release. Though Jack had not really had the opportunity to do any pleading. He hoped that Don Alejandro would visit him again soon. Before the hour was up, at any rate.

Oh god, his _finger_. Perhaps Jack Sparrow would keep it as a souvenir, when he sailed away. Lucky finger, thought Jack, vaguely aware that he was more than a little out of his mind with the pain and the shock. He remembered the obscenely gentle brush of Don Alejandro's touch on his fingernail, and felt the tendons of his arm blaze anew as his body tried once more to flinch from the ghost of that touch.

_Jack Sparrow'll come for you, JackmyJack, ne'er you fear, ne'er you fret!_ murmured his familiar Imp, capering and dancing all glittery-gold in the embery haze before his eyes.

_Bugger off_ , thought Jack, rolling over. _'Is that it?', indeed._ There was something hard on the floor, a stone, or --

Not on the floor. In his pocket.

Jack pushed himself, one-handed (his entire left arm being one featureless mass of pain), to a sitting position, and drew out the little pearly bottle that Jack Sparrow had tossed to him so long ago -- yesterday, it had been yesterday; he'd plucked it out of the air _left-handed_ , oh God -- when he'd been complaining of his headache. Oh, that had been nothing, _nothing_ \--

Laudanum. Jack made himself focus on the pale blur of the bottle in his hand. Somehow it had survived the attentions of Don Alejandro's men -- they had disarmed him, of course, but had made no more than a very perfunctory search of his person -- and the various kicks, blows and falls which had (ha ha) _befallen_ him since his arrival here. Now he raised the bottle to his mouth, pulled out the stopper with his teeth, and tipped a generous dose of medicine down his dry throat.

It burned and stung and warmed him wonderfully: like the rum he'd drunk with Sparrow, or no, like Sparrow's very presence. His stomach settled, and his arm suddenly seemed to have grown a great deal longer, with his mutilated hand very far away at the end of it.

Oh heavens, Jack Sparrow, all warm and alive and _urgent_ against him. And oh hell (thought Jack Shaftoe fuzzily) one finger fewer to lay on him, when next ...

He did not feel the cold, any more, and the pain was far away: and a warming rage flooding through him: and a certainty, that Jack Sparrow would come. Must come. Would come.


	35. impofperversity | An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter Thirty-Four

  


First part, and most of plot, down to sweetest Gloria: thank you, darling :)

"Just describe to me again, Captain Sparrow," demanded Cornelisz vandenVoort, eyeing Burton rather nervously as he stood square in front of the door to the scullery—Jack could see blackened branches over his shoulder—"what profit is in it for me, to _sell_ to you what you have so lately sold to _me_?"

"Long story," said Jack, attempting a smile, though he really didn’t feel much like it: "but, oh, how if I pay you double, eh? And I need to borrow a few things. Receptacles, and the like. You know, alchemical… paraphernalia."

VandenVoort sniffed. _Must be high on the fumes: I'd forgotten how much this stuff stinks,_ thought Jack. _An’ come to think of it, din't he have eyebrows, when last I saw him?_

"You must be insane, Captain. Your damned Receipt is worthless, too; I cannot recreate it, you have clearly lied to me. And now you wish to do business with me again? You surely cannot imagine that—hey, you! Put that down!” he snapped, striding towards Cooper, who had begun stockpiling Useful Things in the middle of the courtyard. Cooper, as instructed, put the kettle down. Albeit on his pile.

“Get out, all of you,” said vandenVoort, though rather uncertainly; and Jack, right at that instant, lost his hard-won patience. He had no time for this.

“Look, we’re taking it, whether you like it or no,” he said, and gestured to Cooper to carry on. “And your handcart, we need that too. And we need it now. But I’ll give you fair payment, never fear. And…” a nasty, thin smile came to his face. “And if you don’t believe in my Receipt, you’re welcome to come along with us and see another demonstration.”

“You—you filth!” sputtered vandenVoort, but Jack had turned from him already, and was deep in conversation with Burton, though he could not help but glance up at the sun, repeatedly. His heart seemed to be reverberating loud behind his ribs, as though that organ was counting down, counting down. Not enough time. Not enough. Had to go faster.

“Rags,” Burton shouted to Cooper. “Less’n you want to end up as nekkid as Shaftoe did,” and Cooper ran inside, sounds of ransacking echoing out behind him. VandenVoort moaned, and wrung his hands with absolute melodrama; but he could see that these men were quite unstoppable. Over the hedge, he saw his neighbour, Smith, watching with interest, and he scowled; no help would be forthcoming from that quarter. And another demonstration…

“All right, I shall help you,” he said, suddenly, coming up behind Jack as the pirate manhandled a foetid hogshead up onto the handcart. “I shall help you, and you shall pay me!”—and he held out his hand.

Jack, rolling his eyes, pulled two fat money-bags from inside his coat and dropped them into the Dutchman's palm, giving him an admonitory slap as vandenVoort began to fiddle with the ties.

"You can count it on the way," he snapped.

*

Down at the dock, Bootstrap sorted his men; the Spaniards huddled together, and Martingale went among them, removing any item of clothing that wasn’t strictly necessary, and redistributing it to selected members of the _Pearl_ ’s company.

“Spaniard,” said Bootstrap, pushing Pete toward the prisoners, and “Spaniard” again for Samuel; “My party,” to Stone, and “Meet Jack” to Walters, and in this way he soon had three groups. The first consisted of the Spaniards, and the most Latinate and swarthy of the _Pearl_ ’s crew, pulling on Spanish weskits and coats; no real disguise, but perhaps enough to make a man pause for a moment, a moment that might matter; for right now, Bill fretted, all moments mattered, and the sun had never seemed to move so fast across the sky. The second group would accompany the hostages, real and faux (distinguished not only by their true nationalities, but by the efficacy of their bonds); the third, would find Jack, and do his bidding, whatever that might be.

“Now, gentlemen,” he advised the Spaniards, some of whom apparently understood, and started gabbling under their breaths to those of their compatriots who didn’t, ”We’re taking you home. But there’s likely to be a little bit of a kerfuffle when we get there.”

Frowns of confusion, and Stone suggested helpfully that ‘kerfuffle’ might not be particularly easy to translate.

Bill grinned, and pulled out his sword, illustratively. “Bit of the old to an’ fro, gents, savvy? Point is, each of _you_ is very very closely attached to one of _us_ ; and we’ve got all sorts of nasty sharp and explosive things on our persons, haven’t we, eh boys? So here’s two important words that I hope you understand: _silent_ , and _still_ , ‘specially aforehand. And if you don’t understand, then you ain’t likely to last the afternoon. Got it?”

A whispered gabble echoed after his words, and then he got a couple of sulky nods in return.

“All right, then. Let’s go visiting.”

*

Laudanum was a wonderful thing. A really, really wonderful thing. A really, really, really… really…

Jack’s thought trailed off. His hand was still, as far as he could feel, six times larger than it should be; and ever so warm, as though, as though he’d plunged it into the middle of a lovely steaming plum pudding; and he cradled it against his chest, as though it were a fevered child. The dark of the cellar was comforting, now, closing lovingly around him, and the faint currents of air that wafted down the stairs, from the gap under the door, seemed as gentle as the breath of a lover on his skin. Sweet and cool and…

_Jack Sparrow’s breath ain’t cool,_ murmured the Imp contentiously. It was stretched out limp and somnolent beside Jack, sighing occasionally. It seemed to’ve decided to partake of Jack’s medicine with him, though it hadn’t been as eager to suffer his pain.

No, Jack had to concur, it was not; and the drug in his blood thoughtfully warmed the breeze for him; and on his chest, bared by de Braxas’ blade, he phant’sied he felt Jack Sparrow’s hot breath. His heartbeat, which’d seemed so slow, rushed forward a little at the thought of it; some tiny vanishing remnant of Jack’s consciousness cried, as though from the bottom of a deep well, _Think of Nettie, instead, you ain’t no pirate’s catamite!_ But it disappeared into the close dark, and Jack couldn’t be bothered arguing with the thoughts and images that were running so deliciously amok in his whirling head.

For if Jack Sparrow’s breath was on his chest, did that not mean it would be followed, oh followed, by the tickle of his wild hair, and p’rhaps the cool touch of porcelain or metal from his beaded plaits, and then…

Jack’s imaginings swirled and coalesced before him, and in the blackness he could see glimmering shadows, angles, curves; the curve of a high cheekbone, the sharp line of Sparrow’s nose, the dark sockets of his eyes; and there, with a glint of ivory, came a smile, and with a shiver of delight Jack recognised a good hallucination when he saw one.

*

From the dusty road, Bootstrap peered carefully round the house’s tall hedges, and could see Espinosa and Montoya, on the verandah; there were at least a dozen other men, ruffians the lot of ‘em, and a tall, silver-haired fellow stood with his arms crossed, as Don Esteban talked to him in a low voice, a hand upon his shoulder. He did not really need Felton’s whispered identification of de Braxas.

“Slowly, lads,” he said, “I can’t see Jack yet.”

*

“I don’t know, Jack, I just don’t know,” muttered Burton, bouncing and jostling along on the back of the handcart as Jack and Cooper pulled him along, and clutching at bottles and flasks as they hit particularly determined ruts. “I think, I’m not sure… d’you think this is enough rum?”

“Rum?” snapped vandenVoort, panting as he staggered after the cart.

“Piss, he means piss,” said Jack, scowling up at the racing sun and increasing his pace. “Shut up and do it, Burton.”

*

The shadowy sprite of Jack Sparrow curled round Jack where he lay; whispered in his ear, and stroked a dark finger across his lips, and Jack sighed, and oh, there was something to be said for delirium. He wondered how much more laudanum Sparrow might have squirreled away.

“Lots,” whispered Jack Sparrow, his lips feathering against Jack’s ear. “All you want, all you want. I’ll make you feel fine, Jack Shaftoe, oh yes…”

“All I want,” mumbled Jack, and Sparrow smiled, and whispered, “That’s right, that’s right; I’m all you want.”

*

Felton turned back to Bootstrap, and whispered, “S’no good, Bill, I can’t hear what they’re saying. But I say we should go in, we should.”

Bootstrap glanced up and down the road again, peered up the hill beside the house; he could see nothing. Jack’d been clear: _Wait till we arrive, we’ll get it all started at once_. He dithered. Behind him, he could hear garbled whispers, and Martingale lost his patience, cocking his pistol and hissing, “Shut it, you bastards, or I’ll put a hole in you here and now, I swear!”

And time, time, no time; Bill peered fretfully round the hedge again.

Espinosa was still talking, gesticulating. De Braxas was staring at the sky.

Until he leant down, pulled the axe from the block, turned on his heel and disappeared into the house.

“Oh, fuck,” said Bootstrap Bill.

*

They’d left the rutted path soon after Bill’s third party had found them, and toiled now through the sparse trees on the hillside, but with these extra bodies it was far easier; Jack told them all to grab what they could from the cart, and left it behind, and they staggered under their stenchful burdens, till they came to the shadowed lee of the high wall that ran around the side of the hill, along the eastern boundary of de Braxas’s home. From here, there was a clear view down onto the house and gardens. Down onto the verandah, where Jack could see Espinosa and Montoya; but no sign of Don Alejandro.

Out on the road, a tiny Bootstrap signalled for Jack’s attention, and he raised a hand over the wall, and signed back. Five minutes. He turned back to Burton.

“There, mate, you’ve got five minutes, and then I want you to fire, you hear? And don’t fucking stop. I mean, try not to fire on our lot, but, you know. And” (this to the late arrivals) “you know what to do with those bottles of water?”

“Aye, Jack, we remember right enough,” Barnes assured him.

“See you after, then,” said Jack Sparrow; “I’m going ‘round back to get Mr Shaftoe.” And he was gone.

*

Mr Shaftoe, blissfully ignorant, was deep in a delicious, concupiscent dream, the pain now dulled, and certainly far duller than his imaginings; and he was most annoyed when light appeared at the top of the cellar steps, and the shimmery phantasm of Jack Sparrow fled before it without a word. He groaned, and squinted, and it took some time to recognise who it was before him.

De Braxas hung his lanthorn from a low hook, and stood on the bottom step, staring down at Jack’s limp form with distaste.

“I must inform you that your Captain is tardy; he claims to have accepted my terms, and yet… he does not deliver. He is apparently not a man of his word, I am sorry to say. I, on the other hand…”

Jack’s head spun, vaguely, as de Braxas shot out a hand, grabbing his arm and pulling him to his knees, hauling him across to the stairs. Some spark of self-preservation lit in Jack, and he swung at the man with his good hand, but it was slow and quickly parried, and before Jack really knew it—oh, this was happening too fast for a man who’d swallowed so much laudanum—he was on his back, on the hard stone stairs, and his right hand, his good hand, was pinned by de Braxas’ bony knee, and the Don was leaning over him, and he had oh fuck he had that bloody axe again, and he looked like a man with no patience left in him, none. The laudanum warmth was draining, seeping, drizzling, from Jack, being replaced by a cold and stupid fog.

“This is dragging on most annoyingly,” said de Braxas coldly, “And your captain seems to be insufficiently motivated by your sacrifice to date. I must therefore raise the stakes, Mr Shaftoe.”

Slowly, oh so slowly, it penetrated, as de Braxas wrestled Jack’s shirtsleeve out of the way (as if that would be any hindrance to his task); he meant to take Jack’s whole hand.

And as Jack realised this, as it became true in his head, he felt a shudder pass through him, and heard some explosive repercussion, and woke like a man from a dream; it was surely the most vivid realisation he’d ever had. But no, it was no mere phant’sy, for de Braxas looked up, and swore viciously in Spanish, and Jack could hear cries and shouts above him; something was happening, and it jarred Jack out of his stupor.

As the axe was raised, Jack reached up with his hurt and bloodied left hand, and grabbed the other man’s head, and lifted his own, wailing as if in abject terror (it was not much of a stretch of Jack’s acting abilities): “Señor, I beg you—”

And when de Braxas momentarily turned his scowling gaze on Jack, Jack ignored the searing pain in his hand and pulled de Braxas down, and simultaneously, with every muscle of his body, snapped himself forward, smashing his forehead into the bridge of the Spaniard’s nose with a spine-tinglingly vile crunch of bone and cartilage.

De Braxas screamed, and the axe clattered as it fell to the flagstones, and Jack, pressing his advantage, pushed him backwards, and they tumbled together down the stone steps, both roaring in pain as they landed, Jack’s hand briefly trapped below de Braxas. He pulled it free, howling with rage and agony—thankful for the noisy chaos above, oh, it was Sparrow, it was Sparrow, he was sure of it, and the thought filled him with violent joy, and he would show Jack Sparrow that he was every bit capable of getting himself _out_ of the messes which he was so obviously capable of getting _into_.

Blood gouted from de Braxas’ broken nose as Jack, heedless of his own pain (his finger, unsurprisingly in the circumstances, had begun to bleed again, the cauterised scab tearing free) wrestled him down, and pinned the man’s arms by dint of kneeling, hard and viciously, upon his spread elbows, which only made the damn man scream more, though it was a choked and bubbling noise through the gore streaming down his face.

Jack stretched backwards, picking up the axe, and time slowed again, as the rush of adrenalin in his blood quieted once more beneath the swirly remnants of the laudanum. Panting, he ran his thumb across the blade; so sharp, so sharp, and his hand throbbed at the memory. His hand; his poor hand; and he looked at it. Spread his fingers wide, and it was a sad, pathetic, bloodied thing that would never, never be whole again. Never be perfect again.

It had to be avenged.

God, this man was making a lot of noise. Jack transferred the axe to his left hand so that he could slap him and told him to shut up, and miraculously he did. (Jack could not know just how terrifying he looked, kneeling there shadowed and bloodied and wild, a man who’d been mutilated a scant hour since and seemed to care nothing for it, a man now holding that same cruel axe in his fingerless hand.)

Jack merely looked down upon Alejandro de Braxas and saw the creature who’d taken his finger; who would’ve taken his hand; who would’ve taken Jack from the bright world, and all the sweet adventure waiting in it.

He tossed the axe up, and caught it in his good hand as it came down, careless of the Spaniard’s flinch as the blade flashed in the lanthorn-light.

“All right,” said de Braxas, wetly, “I will let you go. I have Esteban; we are even, you and I. You can go.”

Jack laughed at this bravado, impressive though it was. “Even?” he said, and watched the Spaniard’s hands clench into fists, reflexively hiding his fingers.

“I don’t play to draw,” said Jack Shaftoe. “I play to win.” And he kissed the bloodied stump of his finger, so gently; and put it, feathersoft, to Don Alejandro’s throat.


	36. An Alchemical Prescription,  35

  
  
"But, Captain Espinosa," said Bill, as pompous and haughty as the Second Mate he'd served under on his first trip out, "Captain Sparrow was most insistent that I deliver the, the _hostages_ , to Don Alejandro de Braxas in person. And you, Don Esteban, may be his _friend_ , and you, sir," he bowed to Montoya, "his nephew, but nevertheless --"

"Mr Turner, is it not?" said Don Esteban loudly, with a sneer. "Mr Turner, I would be obliged if you would release my crew without further ado. Don Alejandro has gone to fetch your Mr Shaftoe --"

Montoya, who was frowning at Bill, leaned close to Don Esteban and whispered in his ear. Bill flicked a glance at Felton, but the other shook his head. Whatever it was, it brought a smile, of sorts, to Don Esteban's face: but he continued as though there had been no interruption.

"-- and Mr Shaftoe will not be restored to you until the crew of the _Santa Ana_ \--" here he crossed himself "-- are free once more." And he swept a hand out to indicate the huddled mass of chained men at the gate. Stone and Cox were keeping them in line, and staring down de Braxas's men, who stared back hotly. None of _them_ would know which were the _Santa Ana_ 's men and which the _Pearl_ 's, at least not until the fighting started.

Any minute now.

* * *

Don Alejandro's house was big and gloomy and rambling: clearly, thought Jack irritably as he stumbled through another shadowy doorway, its owner did not mind walking miles to get from his kitchen (where Jack had entered the house, soft and quiet, checking the scrubbed table and the knives on the wall for traces of blood) to his library. The library smelt wonderfully of leather and paper and ink, and Jack would've loved to linger, and perhaps withdraw a few volumes for later perusal: but he had a Quest, and only minutes to fulfil it.

In fact, wasn't it about --

There was a huge roar from outside, as though someone had let loose a monster. Burton was right on time. Jack, recognising the sound of a great deal of Greek Fire feasting upon a predominantly wooden structure, smiled to himself. _That_ should provide some distraction for anyone tempted to interfere. Though it'd be a shame about the books.

The sound of the fire almost drowned out a commotion -- cries, and shouts -- from somewhere nearby. Jack stopped dead, one foot raised, and peered around the corner of the door. He thought he'd recognise Jack Shaftoe's voice, even in extremis: but he couldn't swear that any of the racket (still quite audible, though there was no one in sight) came from Shaftoe. If he were even still alive: still sane. Jack had seen terrible acts performed by the Spanish, and after the token that de Braxas had sent him, he did not put anything past the man.

Ooh, footsteps. Jack drew back into the shadowy interior of the room -- a pleasant music-room, with something that looked like a spinet under a cloth in the corner -- and watched two tall, broad-shouldered, swarthy types rush past outside as though the house were on fire. Which, if it wasn't, it should be by now.

"Wonder where they're off to?" murmured Jack to himself, stepping out into the corridor once more and turning east, to follow the men: Don Alejandro's hired thugs, by the look of it, doubtless off on some urgent mission for their master. Perhaps bound for Jack Shaftoe's gaol, to bring him out for ransom. The hour must be up by now, and --

"Captain, I protest!"

* * *

Bill shifted so that the hilt of his sword was, very obviously, next to his hand. It drew Don Esteban's eye from closer examination, and heaven forbid tallying, of the hostages, and from noticing -- Bill muttered a quick order to Stone, who went off to see to it -- that an argument had broken out, not quite at the front of the group (where Bill had put most of the genuine Spaniards) but certainly within earshot. Within his earshot, at any rate.

"Once Don Alejandro brings us Mr Shaftoe," he said loudly, affecting boredom and trying not to glance up at the sun, "you shall have your men returned."

"'Less 'e's done any worse to poor old Shaftoe," murmured Felton, just loud enough to be heard.

Don Alejandro cupped an ear, and Bootstrap scowled at Felton, warning him not to repeat himself; but Montoya held up a hand, signalling silence. His head was turned towards the house. Bill did not bother saying anything, for no man's voice would cover that roaring crackling sound any more, and no man could wish away the acrid reek, or the billowing smoke that issued from somewhere behind the house.

* * *

The two blokes who'd appeared on the stairs were not Jack Sparrow, neither of 'em. Jack Shaftoe didn't think he knew them from the _Black Pearl_ , either: and when one of them addressed him (or, more likely, Don Alejandro) in Spanish, that decided the issue. They were the Enemy.

Not much of an enemy at the moment. Oh, they looked muscly and strong enough, and Jack Shaftoe knew his nerves weren't up to much, not after the shock and the laudanum and the exertion of pinning down de Braxas: but still, he thought he had a fair chance of inflicting some serious damage on their boss before those two could rush him.

Don Alejandro was trying to say something, and Jack leaned down slightly, just slightly, on the axe, until he was quiet again. What an unpleasant voice the man had. Wet and spluttery.

"Not one step closer, gentlemen," he said, grinning, to the other two.

Was he repeating himself? Everything was bright and clear and slow, like moving underwater. His hand was raw red agony, but that would get better, one way or another, pretty soon: when he thought about it there were all sorts of other aches -- scraped knees (he ground them harder into de Braxas' elbows, provoking more noise from the man) where he'd been dragged across the floor earlier, a slight headache from rearranging Don Alejandro's face, a bruise blossoming where he'd been kicked, earlier, by the man's fine Spanish leather boots -- but all of them faded into the glorious golden haze of the laudanum. He really, really hoped that Jack Sparrow would turn up soon, and bring him some more of this stuff.

* * *

"Fuego!" shouted one of the Spanish sailors, in case anyone had missed the signs; and then another, very daring, cried out "Una trampa, Señor!" and was set upon for his pains. Though Bill did not understand every word, the rageful look that Don Esteban turned on him was plain as day.

"Now!" he cried, and behind him came the noise of shackles dropping to the ground, and of the _Santa Ana_ 's men -- poor sods, they'd done nothing to deserve this -- being thrown down too, still chained, by those prisoners whose bonds had so conveniently come loose. Bootstrap's army had abruptly doubled in size, and de Braxas' men looked for a moment as though they might turn and flee: but then, from within the house, came an outcry, and it seemed to stiffen their spines.

The clash of weaponry, the sheer din of men fighting, bid fair to drown out any noise from within, though the hungry sound of the fire was still audible. The boys were closing with Don Esteban and Montoya, who had won themselves no friends during their sojourn on the _Black Pearl_. Bootstrap hung back a moment, scanning the windows of the big house, searching for any sign of Jack: either of 'em, Sparrow or Shaftoe, would do. The black smoke, the shouts, the general outcry from the rear of the building was evidence that at least part of Jack Sparrow's plan had gone right; but Bill Turner loved his captain, and he did not care to think of him roaming that house, no, not with de Braxas (who'd proved himself a right savage) armed, and on his home ground.

* * *

Jack Sparrow was immensely proud of himself for neither shrieking like a girl nor shooting the Dutchman. Though it would have been well-deserved. For, entirely unexpected, here was Cornelisz vandenVoort, hovering next to him after popping out from under the stairs like a goblin in a fairytale. Jack, still heading after the others, hefted his pistol meaningfully, but vandenVoort did not seem to notice it.

"Don Alejandro de Braxas is an ... an associate of mine," said vandenVoort indignantly, breathless with keeping up. "You have invaded his home! This will not do, Captain Sparrow, not at --"

"Shhh," said Jack fiercely, halting -- it wouldn't do to be discovered arguing with this idiot -- and clapping his hand over vandenVoort's wet, open mouth. "Your _associate_ has ... has stolen something from me, savvy? And I'm going after it." Now was not the time to explain, or to hedge around with disclaimers and cavils: Jack Shaftoe was his, and Don Alejandro had taken and hurt him. And somewhere, somewhere close ... Jack pushed vandenVoort away, shushing him again, and crept forward.

Around the next corner of the passage was a glimmer of light, and Jack saw that it came from behind an open door. Another step forward and he could see stone stairs leading downward, to a cellar, or a still-room, containing (from the sound of it) a maniac being smothered slowly with a soaking-wet blanket, a bellows, and a number of wild beasts howling and growling.  
  
"If you make a sound, a single sound, without my say-so," whispered Jack viciously over his shoulder to Cornelisz vandenVoort, "I will kill you."

VandenVoort fell silent.

* * *

The two blokes on the stairs -- Jack was sure there were two of 'em, despite their similarities to one another, viz. dark, tall, muscle-bound and stubbled -- were muttering together, and he couldn't make out a word of it. Bloody foreigners, turning up and pretending to be other people: interrupting him. Now, where'd he been? Ah yes.

"Mr Shaftoe, I shall pay in gold, yes --"

"I fear I need a different kind of payment," said Jack. The axe-haft was in his hand -- his good right hand, that de Braxas would've taken from him -- and the blade was on Don Alejandro's throat. Jack flexed his other hand, thinking (wrongly) that it could not hurt more than it already did.

"What payment is that?" Even prone, pinned and with an axe at his throat, de Braxas did not plead. Jack would have admired him, if his left hand had not been screaming at him.

"I'd like my finger back," said Jack, splaying his hand before Don Alejandro's eyes. "No? Then what will you give me instead?"

* * *

Jack Sparrow could hear a voice, a heavily-accented voice, asking a question; though he couldn't make out the words, the rhythm of them was English. And who else would be addressed in English, here?

"Not one step closer, gentlemen," said Jack Shaftoe's voice, cheerfully, out of the depths: and Jack Sparrow stepped forward as though irresistibly drawn.

From the shadows at the top of the stairway he could see over the broad, brawny shoulders of Don Alejandro's henchmen: could see Jack Shaftoe, alive alive-o, all bloody _but is it his blood?_ , crouching over -- pinning down -- a gibbering, scrawny, well-dressed fellow with a ruined face. Don Alejandro, had to be. Shaftoe's entire attention (not to mention his entire weight) was on him, and he was grinning like a maniac, like a fearsomely sharp-toothed feral maniac: Jack saw the blood welling darkly from the place where Shaftoe's finger had been, and felt the rage rise in him again. And in Jack Shaftoe's other hand, poised over the Spaniard's neck, was an axe.

* * *

Someone else had turned up (there was a brief, fierce exchange of words at the top of the stairs), and both de Braxas' men turned to face the interruption. Jack wanted to see, too -- Jack Sparrow, come for him at last? -- but Don Alejandro was making a fuss again, and Jack was forced to slap him quiet once more. A man could hardly hear himself think around here.

"What's this?" demanded a familiar voice, and there was a shadowy figure -- a head shorter than the Spaniards -- coming down into the cellar. Jack's heart stuttered and leapt with joy. Sparrow! Laudanum! Oh, the dreams he'd had: he must tell Jack about --

But even as he opened his mouth _he doesn't move like Jack_ to call out, the man on the left brought his fist around, and _that wasn't Sparrow's voice_ Jack heard the solid impact of it against the shorter man's skull, hardly cushioned by his thin hair: and he dropped like a sack of wheat off the stairs, onto the stone floor where Jack had lain in shackles.

Hell of a rescue attempt, if that's what vandenVoort -- Jack could see his face clearly in the circle of lanthorn light -- had intended. The Dutchman lay corpse-still, corpse-quiet, almost close enough to touch. And worse, he was not Jack Sparrow: Sparrow had not come. In pain -- the laudanum was ebbing -- and weariness, and all-compassing despair, Jack lifted the axe above his head, and let the sweep of the motion carry it back down.

Funny, that. It'd _looked_ like an axe, and he could feel the haft in his hand, and the blood jetting over him from the open mouth of the long, straight wound: and yet the sound it made was very definitely the sharp crack of a pistol, a clean breaking sound that echoed around the cellar. And there was nowhere for Don Alejandro to fall, except down down down (Jack shook his head, dizzy) into Hell; yet he'd heard the heavy slump of another body hitting the flagstones. And from somewhere up above came the damp, plantive sound of a man's last breath.

"Get up, Mr Shaftoe," said Jack Sparrow's voice, and in that instant Jack understood that this was real.


	37. impofperversity | An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter Thirty-Six

  


He heard his own voice, hollow and foolish: _Get up, Mr Shaftoe_ , he said, as though that were the important thing to say, and it was that cold, competent part of him that spoke. But beneath that, in the roiling core of him, where sick desperation had lurked for the entirety of this long, dreadful day, a fire had burst into life, and it was all Jack could do not to run down the stairs, not to pull Jack Shaftoe, blood and axe and all, into his arms and crush him tight, and cry _you’re alive, I have you, and I’ll kill them all, all, for hurting you_.

And yet Jack recognised the stupidity of this, truly he did, for wasn’t Shaftoe carrying out his own vengeance very nicely, thank you, and seemingly in no need of rescue at all? Of all the things he’d imagined—Shaftoe huddled in a corner, Shaftoe chained and delirious with pain, Shaftoe roaring in helpless restrained rage—he’d never imagined this. Jack Shaftoe, half-severing de Braxas’ neck with an axe, his ragged shirt hanging open over a chest dark and slick with blood, his pupils wild black pinpricks in his hazy blue eyes, his eyebrows meeting in confusion as he looked up at Jack, and then, oh then the confusion passing, and a slow, a beautiful, smile coming to his face, and even in the dim lanternlight Jack could see the dimple that came to his cheek. Oh, Jack Shaftoe, oh god, he was beautiful, he was monstrous, he was superb.

“You came,” said Shaftoe, and he smiled like an angel, though the rest of him looked like the devil incarnate. Jack caught his breath to see it, and in that moment he made himself a promise: _just get him out of here, and you shall have him. No matter what it takes._

“Get up,” said Jack, again, willing his voice not to shake, and he held out his hand; Shaftoe reached up with his sticky, filthy left hand, and took it, and seemed quite utterly careless of his bleeding, mutilated knuckle. The touch of it, where a finger should’ve wrapped around his, made Jack queasy, and he fought it down. Later, later; he hauled Shaftoe to his feet, and Shaftoe staggered slightly.

“Are you—” Jack began, and then couldn’t bring himself to complete such an utterly fatuous question; of course the man wasn’t _all right_ , he was bleeding and bruised and surrounded by dead men in the cellar of a house that was on fire and being violently defended from attack by pirates. Instead, he said, “Can you walk?”

“Yes,” said Jack Shaftoe, in a tone of voice that implied that it was an even stupider question than the one he’d just unknowingly avoided, and he let go of Jack’s hand (oh, loss!) and, as if it were simply the done thing, he took de Braxas’ sword from its scabbard, and the dagger from his belt. There was another enormous explosion, and dust shuddered down from the cellar roof.

“What’s happening?” asked Shaftoe, vaguely, and Jack frowned at him; he really didn’t seem to be altogether _with_ it. Oh, fuck it, it might be a stupid question, but it had to be asked. “Are you all right, Jack?” he said, frowning into Shaftoe’s unfocussed gaze.

Shaftoe smiled again, even wider, and nodded slowly, and said, “You gave me laudanum.”

“Ohhhh,” said Jack, and wondered anew at the fabulous savagery that would let a man fight through an opiate haze to subdue and butcher his enemy, singlehandedly. His prick swelled warmly at the thought, and a shiver ran up his spine. “Well, out back, there’s a bit of a bonfire going; and out front there’s a decent-sized pitched battle; which route d’you prefer?”

“Can’t we go out the _side_?” said Shaftoe, poking at vandenVoort with his foot. There was no response, and Jack was certain from the angle of the man’s neck that there was unlikely to be one forthcoming in the future. Unfortunate, he hadn’t meant for that to happen; bloody Spaniard and his impatient fists, all Jack’d wanted to do was distract them for a moment. Still. He quickly retrieved his payment from the Dutchman’s pockets. Waste not, et cetera.

“Sideways it is, then,” he said, and—with one last, hungry look at glorious, feral, beaming Jack Shaftoe—ran up the stairs, two at a time.

*

The house seemed empty, though it echoed with the familiar sounds of mayhem, of ringing steel and shouts and screams, of spitting licking flame, and Sparrow darted through the smokey hallways as if he knew precisely where he was going, glancing back occasionally to be sure that Jack was behind him. Which Jack was, as close as he could be; pulled close, magnetically, and once or twice he couldn’t stop himself from reaching out and touching, just touching hair or coat or anything, to make sure it was real and not that inconstant dream returned to him. His touch left trails of blood; his clothes were heavy with it, sticking and crusting and foul.

_I’ve told you a hundred times,_ Bob would’ve said, _throats should be slit from **behind**_. Like many of Bob’s pieces of advice, this one’d turned out to have a fine reason behind it; and, also like many of Bob’s pieces of advice, Jack’d discovered its rationale the hard way. But he couldn’t be sorry for it; it’d felt wonderful, wonderful, to let that blade fall, and watch the realisation in de Braxas’ eyes, for that split second before they began to darken and unfocus. It’d set off an explosive joy in his chest; a joy which was doubled, trebled, on hearing Sparrow’s voice and understanding that it was no dream, that he was avenged and rescued both in one swift moment, and that Jack Sparrow had come for him. Had come for him with all his men, and with a rage to match Jack’s own, and a cold desire for destruction and reprisal.

As though Jack were, truly, something worth saving; and Jack still couldn’t wipe the smile from his face to be thought of so, by this man.

“This way,” cried Sparrow, and darted off to his left, and not a moment too soon, for the hallway was filling with black, acidic smoke, and the spitting roar of flames was close and loud. Jack followed, and found himself in a room that would, in any other circumstances, be an oasis of calm; lined with books, a wide desk before a window, leather chairs standing mute about a low table; but all it was to Jack was an Exit. He strode straight across to the window, pausing only to grab the largest volume he could see, and heaving it through the glass.

“Heraclitus!” shrieked Jack Sparrow, mysteriously, and he glared at Jack as if he’d done something positively wicked; Jack stared at him in bemusement.

“Oh, never mind,” Sparrow said rather crossly, and then, “But wait, wait just a moment,” and (this was so ridiculous that Jack wondered if it were another laudanum-hallucination, but no) he ran along the shelves, a long dirty finger rippling over the spines, his head tilted sideways. Once, twice, three times he gave a delighted cry and pulled a book down, until Jack could bear it no longer and said, rather patiently he thought, “Jack, the house is burning down and quite a few Spaniards want to kill us,” and Sparrow sighed and nodded, and put back the largest volume, but slid the other two into interior pockets of his coat. It hung straight and heavy, the hidden books smacking into his knees as he ran to the window and followed Jack through.

*

He’d spared no more than a glance for Bootstrap and company, and the melée out the front of the house; but Bill had spotted him, and managed to find time for a wink in between fending off one Spaniard and relieving another of an ear, and it seemed to be more or less under control, inasmuch as these things ever were: anyway, as Jack heaved Shaftoe over the wall and scrambled up after him, he noted that Bill’d begun the retreat, as planned. The two of them slipped and crashed through the bushes back to Cooper and Burton, who were happily picking off any Spanish who took it into their heads to try to combat the fire at source.

“Leave it, leave it all, just bring the cross-bows and a couple of arrows,” Jack ordered, and as they sighted the front of the house, and Bootstrap’s men retreating from the few Spaniards still fighting (there were numerous bodies on the verandah, some still, some moving; Jack did not pause to try to identify them, and could not find it within him, one way or another, to regret the passing of any one of them) he ordered Cooper to fire upon the hedge, a final wall of fire, and gave Bill the signal to get back to the boats. Fast.

A huge column of black smoke rose now into the sky over the town; from their vantage point, Jack could see people beginning to congregate, to point, to wonder; but he did not see any great rush to aid de Braxas. He clearly had as many friends in town as he did aboard the _Black Pearl_.

“Come on, shift it,” Jack said, grinning at his men. Shaftoe was bringing up the rear, lagging a little now, and no wonder. Jack fell back, letting the others overtake him—they knew where they were going—and when Shaftoe reached him, he said “Lean on me,” and pulled Shaftoe’s gory arm over his shoulders.

Waited for Jack Shaftoe to say, “I don’t need help,” or “Let go,” or “Get off me;” but he heard none of those, none. Shaftoe heaved a deep breath, almost a sigh, and leant into him (Jack’s head swirled under the weight, the heat, and the metallic, bloody smell of him, a smell of death somehow transformed by Jack Shaftoe’s skin to one of dizzying, prickly life); and then, incredibly, he spread his fingers out over the shoulder of Jack’s coat and squeezed him.

Jack wanted to rip his coat off there and then, and his vest, and his shirt, and then say, _Do that again_.

“My thanks, Jack,” said Shaftoe. “For coming for me.”

“Any time,” said Jack, most fervently.

*

On a ship out in the bay, several men stood, watching a thin column of smoke rising into the sky. There was another bright, white flash; seconds later, another dull roar.

The red-bearded man at one side of the group had his own glass, and he lowered it just as the Captain lowered his.

“Interesting sights in Port Royal today,” he observed, and the Captain grunted.

“Pirates, no doubt,” he said. “There’s no control here, and won’t be till the Navy start to act as though they mean it; why, look at that, sir; that ship there, the most notorious of them all, and in plain daylight. Until those men are driven from the face of the sea, no honest vessel will be safe.”

“And are you sure that the recipient of that fire was an honest man?” said red-beard, with a sideways glance that said he had perfect knowledge to the contrary, and the Captain snorted, and said that they could kill each other off for all that he cared; they watched in silence for some minutes.

“Sir, there,” said his First Mate, pointing at the boats setting off from the beach, and glasses were raised again. “Should we fire upon them?”

“We’re not here to do the bloody Navy’s job. It’s not our fight, and I’m not wasting shot on someone else’s problem, Mr Peterson.”

“Sir.”

The red-bearded man frowned above, and smiled beneath, his glass.

“Captain, I was ready to go ashore; but I should be pleased to increase my fare if I could prevail upon you to take me to that ship, instead.”


	38. An Alchemical Prescription,  37

  
  
Jack Sparrow, as Captain, would normally have been last off the beach, waiting until every man of his crew was embarqued, but under the circumstances he felt that a degree of haste was acceptable. Even so, by the time the first boat reached the _Black Pearl_ , Jack Shaftoe was lolling against Jack's shoulder, deliciously warm (was he fevered?) and sleepy like a child who's had enough excitement for one day. Jack had to smile at the similitude. The gory mess that covered Shaftoe's chest and arms spoke eloquently of the manner of that excitement.

"C'mon, Jack, wake up," he urged, reaching over to shake Shaftoe's good arm. Oh Lord, the smell of him; the spicy, dirty, musky odour of Jack Shaftoe, quite distinct beneath the twinned stenches of blood and smoke. Jack could not help but inhale.

"Wha'?" managed Shaftoe, blinking. His pupils were still impossibly small, though the sun was setting gloriously behind the hill, and dusk was falling.

"We're here, Mr Shaftoe," said Jack, forcing himself to draw his hand back from the warmth of Shaftoe's body.

Shaftoe looked up at the vast black cliff of the _Pearl_ 's hull, and for a moment seemed to shrink from it.

Must be the drug, thought Jack. He'll be wanting more of it soon. Aloud, he said, "Need a -- a hand, Mr Shaftoe?"

Shaftoe grinned fiercely at him, and, scrambling to his feet, said, "Course not, don't be daft, Jack. I'm perfectly _oh fuck_." And he lurched heavily against Jack, almost knocking him over the transom.

"I'll take that as a yes, then," said Jack, bracing himself, and nodding his thanks as Burton, clapping hold of the painter, steadied Shaftoe with his free hand.

Between them they heaved a protesting Jack Shaftoe up the side of the ship (Jack heard him swear when his left hand closed around the coarse hempen sea-ladder) and onto the deck, where he stood, swaying gently in the evening breeze as if he weighed nothing at all. Jack, whose shoulder still bore the impression of Shaftoe's solid warm weight (not to mention the memory of that affectionate squeeze), snapped out orders. Burton took Shaftoe by the arm, as though he were a simpleton or a new recruit, and led him over to the water-butt to get the worst of it off; Cooper hurried down to the galley to arrange a basin of warm water; Martingale, just come up the side, was bidden to find the surgeon's kit -- there being no man worthy of the title aboard the _Pearl_ , just now -- and bring it to Jack's cabin, and --

"Am I to understand," said a familiar voice from behind Jack Sparrow, "that the delivery of your Guyanan cargo has embroiled you in some, shall we say, local disputes?"

"Enoch!" said Jack rather abstractedly, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight of Jack Shaftoe sticking his head in a barrel of water and coming up all wet and sleek and dripping, haloed with a fine spray of sunset-gold droplets. Shaftoe shook his head like a dog, gasping, and pulled the tie free from his blood-matted hair. Jack shut his mouth.

"Any serious injuries?" enquired Enoch delicately, coming to stand beside Jack. Jack scowled. He was _busy_ , could Enoch not see that, and besides, he didn't care for the expression on Root's face as he stared at Jack Shaftoe, who was leaning both hands on the rim of the water-butt, eyes closed, head back, water streaming --

Jack tore himself, with some annoyance, from this fascinating spectacle.

"I don't suppose you've any magical -- oh, I _do_ beg your pardon, I meant to say _alchemical_ \-- concoction for reattaching a severed digit, eh?" he said, wiggling his own fingers in front of Enoch's face to reclaim the man's attention.

Enoch stroked his beard, frowning. "I fear --"

"Mr Root!" said Jack Shaftoe happily, turning and catching sight of his mentor. Beaming (Jack Sparrow identified his own reaction, with some amusement, as jealousy), he sauntered over to where the two of them stood. "'Scuse me if I don't shake hands," he said to Enoch, "but I'm a bit ... a bit ..."

"Bloody," supplied Jack, suppressing the urge to hold onto -- that is, to support -- Jack Shaftoe.

"Aye," said Shaftoe, and giggled.

"But unbowed," said Enoch, looking Shaftoe up and down.

"Did you have business in Port Royal, Enoch?" enquired Jack pointedly. "Because we were just leaving, actually."

"So I see," said Enoch Root, gazing shorewards at the great black column of smoke that rose above the eastern headland.

Jack had had enough of this. "Mr Root," he announced, "awfully sorry, but I need to do a little cleaning and stitching, and Mr Shaftoe's rather urgently in need of some decent attire: p'rhaps you'll excuse us for a few minutes?"

"Maybe I can be of some assistance," offered Enoch, with a courteous little bow.

Jack set his teeth, and tried to think of a reason, any rational reason, to refuse Enoch's offer. More than anything, he wished to be alone with fabulous savage dreamy Jack Shaftoe, alone and --

"I've considerable experience of medical matters," Enoch was saying, "and perhaps I can spare you some discomfort, Jack."

"No, no, no ..." said Jack Shaftoe, letting his words trail off: then, with a visible effort, he collected his thoughts. "Jack'll look after me," he assured Enoch, and he turned his open-hearted, sunny smile full upon Jack Sparrow. "Jack'll fix me up."

Jack was afraid that every thought in his head -- not many had survived that smile -- was emblazoned across his own face for Enoch to read. Certainly the alchemist looked amused. But he bowed his head, and said smoothly, "I'm sure he will, Jack. I'll see you later." And, to Jack Sparrow, very softly, "No more laudanum, I think."

Jack nodded, and grinned back at Shaftoe, and said, "C'mon, then, mate: I'll see you right." And, with Shaftoe close enough behind him that he might, again, reach out to touch Jack's shoulder, Jack headed for his cabin.

* * *

Fascinating. The two young men (Enoch could not help but think of them as young, though he supposed they were in the prime of life) had clearly formed some kind of attachment to one another. And here they were, sailing away -- or at least making ready to sail, tide permitting -- from Port Royal, a fair part of which was still blazing merrily in the dusk. Enoch could not help but feel a faint, annoying itch of responsibility for that blaze, but he quelled it with a more familiar irritation at the abuses to which untutored fools seemed wont to put his knowledge.

"Mr Turner," he said, smiling in greeting as Jack's First Mate caught sight of him and changed direction to join Enoch on the quarterdeck.

"Enoch Root," said Bill Turner, rather guardedly. "How went your explorations in the jungle?"

Enoch could not help but glance at the man's shirt: it was provocatively bright, and he wondered how such a shade had been achieved. Surely ...

Turner cleared his throat, and Enoch, with an apologetic smile, returned his attention to the owner of the garment.

"Guyana was most illuminating," he said. "They've all manner of sacred herbs and strange drugs, and ... But, Mr Turner, do pray give me all the news. I did ask Captain Sparrow, but he seemed keen to tend Mr Shaftoe's wounds. In private."

Turner -- Bootstrap, they called him -- smiled tightly at Enoch. "Couldn't possibly comment," he said. "Jack's the Captain: does as he pleases."

"So what was all that about?" said Enoch, giving up on the subject of Jack Shaftoe for the moment. He waved a hand at the fire -- still roaring and booming, and apparently unquenchable, or at least _unquenched_ \-- that bid fair to consume a goodly part of Port Royal. The wickedest city on Earth, Enoch reminded himself bracingly.

"Bloody Spanish," said Bootstrap, spitting accurately over the side of the ship. "We pulled a gaggle of 'em out of the water, after their ship -- the _Santa Ana_ , if you know it -- was hit by pirates, an' then --"

"Yes, yes," said Enoch impatiently. "I mean, what happened _here_?" He recalled Jack Shaftoe's enthusiasm for things that exploded, and things that burnt brightly, and (best of all) things that did both, in a spectacular sort of way. "Mr Shaftoe?"

"Well, yes," said Turner. "And no." And he proceeded to outline a violent vengeful tale, full of unnecessary bloodshed and excessive references to personal honour. There was a distinctly Hispanic flavour to it all. Enoch sighed. He'd had high hopes of Jack Shaftoe, despite -- indeed, because of -- his unimpressive background: but clearly the fellow cared nothing for Enoch or his Art.

"Still," he said, brightening, "at least he's shown that he's capable of putting my methods to _practical_ use."

* * *

There was something strange about the light on the _Black Pearl_. Maybe it was all that water, reflecting the setting sun, slanting its red light into Jack's eyes and making him blink and squint. Maybe, maybe ... maybe it was the laudanum, though -- judging by the resurgent pain in his left hand -- _that_ was wearing off far too quickly. Jack, stumbling to a halt, stuck his right hand in his pocket, rummaging for the little pearly bottle.

"What's the matter, Mr Shaftoe?" said Sparrow, from the gloom ahead of him.

"Laudanum," said Jack: then, aware that this in itself did not constitute an explanation, added, "is there any more?" For the bottle in his hand was indubitably empty. In fact, come to think of it, he remembered upending it over his mouth as the boat pushed off from the beach, dripping the last lovely drops onto his parched tongue.

"You drank it _all_?" said Sparrow, appalled: but he was laughing, and his laugh was like sunshine, or laziness, or ... no, no, that was the dream again. Lovely dream.

"So, _is_ there any more?" demanded Jack, laughing as well: he couldn't help himself, not with Jack Sparrow right here, tugging him towards the cabin, where good things (though Jack couldn't for the life of him recall 'xactly _what_ ) awaited.

"No more, mate, not yet," said Sparrow, opening the cabin door and leading Shaftoe inside. He lit the lanthorn and light rippled out to every corner of the familiar little space. Another great wave of affection and gratitude and warmth rolled over Jack, and he said, "I'm glad you came for me, Jack."

"Course I came for you, mate," said Sparrow. He was standing close to Jack now, so close that Jack could feel the heat of his body. He'd dreamt this; he remembered it quite clearly now. Handy side-effect of the laudanum, that: dreams that foretold your future. Though how would you tell 'em from the other sort, until that future came? Jack dismissed this Philosophizing as another laudanum-effect. He leaned into Sparrow's warmth, trying to remember what came next.

"Come on, mate," murmured Sparrow, the tickle of his breath making Jack want to laugh, "you need to get out of this kit: let's get you cleaned up, eh?"

Jack tried to unbutton his soaking-wet shirt, but he couldn't find the buttons, and there was something wrong with his hand too: in the end Sparrow, his breathing very careful, had to help him with it. Jack hissed as the damp linen peeled away from his skin. His ribs were sore, and in a bubble of clarity he recalled de Braxas kicking him.

"Is 'e dead?" he demanded of Sparrow, who was holding a soggy red rag: Jack's shirt, no doubt. Though hadn't it been his own, once upon a time?

"Aye, Jack," said Sparrow, stepping back to look Jack in the eye. Wonderful that he understood Jack so easily. "Dead and gone. You nailed him. In the cellar, eh? With the axe?"

How dark Sparrow's eyes were! And how intent the look in them, as though he were hungry for the sight of Jack Shaftoe, half-bare and filthy from battle. Oh, that laudanum-dream was coming back to Jack, fragment by fragment, and even the fragments were enough to bring a flush to his face -- unless that was the sheer warmth of Sparrow's gaze. And why shouldn't Sparrow look at Jack thus, eh? And why shouldn't Jack look back at him, _seeing_ the way the light fell on the curves and hollows of Jack Sparrow's face, the way his unsteady breathing rippled the stained linen of his shirt, the mirrored affection -- for surely Sparrow could read Jack's smile aright -- in his gaze?

"All I want, you promised," murmured Jack. "All I want."


	39. impofperversity | An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter Thirty-Eight

  


The air seemed thick to Jack, thick with heat and the smell of blood, thick with his own desire and confusion, and he could not think straight, not with shirtless Jack Shaftoe standing so close and hot and mazy-eyed and saying these bewildering and inexplicable things. What on God's green earth was he talking about? What promises? Lord, not that Jack wouldn't promise him the world, should he want it, but he really couldn't recall having done so.

The effort required to make sense of it seemed to Jack to be quite unmanageable; he'd already reached the limits of his capabilities, sensibility- and restraint-wise, when he'd been forced to undress Shaftoe like some great, unfeasibly gorgeous child, the man's long fingers slipping and sliding, numb and clumsy on the fastenings of his shirt (such as remained; Jack could see that the fabric had been knife-rent, and ground his teeth at the sight, what had that cursed Spaniard done to his Shaftoe?). All he'd wanted to do, as he stood so close and breathed in deep of Jack Shaftoe's deliciously used air, was rip the damned rag away, rip it and hurl it, and kiss and lick his way all over Shaftoe's hard, broad chest, still sticky with watery, diluted blood; and he'd had to breathe slow and long and deep, and try to smile calmly back at Shaftoe's own dizzying smile as he removed the shirt carefully, solicitous of that poor savaged hand.

_He's not in his right mind_ , Jack kept reminding himself. _He’s hurt, and he's drunk enough laudanum to take out a decent-sized horse; dammit, it ain’t fair to be thinking this way of him, now._

But oh, how cruelly tempting it was, how viciously easy it would be to just move one step closer, just one, see, like this; and Jack Shaftoe and his hot smile would not quail now, he would not scowl or pull away; no, see, instead he would _oh dear god_ he would put a dirty hand on Jack's shoulder, and lean towards him with an expression of—yes, unmistakable!—an expression of ardent hope; and he would say it again. "You promised me; all I want..."

And it was not, could not possibly be, his imagination; what Shaftoe wanted was not a lifetime supply of laudanum (though Jack suspected he might not turn that down were it to come on offer). What Shaftoe's sleepy, honeyed gaze meant, what his damply parted lips meant, what his incandescent fingers, burning through Jack's shirt _meant_ , was... was Jack himself. And Jack's heart lit up flamey, as though Jack Shaftoe had performed some new and wondrous alchemical trick, one which needed no mysterious and foul-smelling ingredients; a magick all of his own design, which was wrought with nothing but the vivid want in his face, and the fearless yearning in his heart, and the fierce strong heat of his body.

And it might be nothing but the poppy skirling through his veins; probably, ‘twas no more than that; but oh, what if... ?

Jack licked his lips, and Shaftoe made a little groaning sound, his eyebrows drawing together as he saw Jack’s tongue darting out. No man, no man alive, could resist that sound, Jack was sure of it, and he moved infinitesimally closer, and Shaftoe closed his eyes and smiled and his fingers dug into Jack and—

Shaftoe’s eyes flew open again at the sound of a brusque knock on the door.

The two men blinked at one another and, without looking away, Jack (almost insensible under the onslaught of his pounding heart and surging blood) managed, "Come!"

Shaftoe’s hand dropped from his shoulder as Martingale entered, laden with a great jug of warmed water, and a bowl; and the surgeon’s kit, and the cleanest rags he’d managed to find. He deposited them all on the table, and pulled out a small, cloth-wrapped package from his pocket.

“Mr Root sends his regards, and suggests you bind this ‘gainst Mr Shaftoe’s wound, Captain; says it’ll ease the hurt, and help the healing too.”

Jack had to clear his throat before he could speak, but eventually achieved a very (he thought) creditable normality in his voice, as he said, “Thank you, Martingale; and has that gentleman determined whether he’ll remain with us? Please tell him, and Mr Turner, that we’re sailing with the tide, and haven’t yet any fixed destination, but Mr Root’s welcome to join us, should he wish it.” Thinking that Enoch Root was a good man to have around when there were Medical Matters to attend to.

Martingale went to leave, but Jack called him back, and handed him the bloodied remains of Shaftoe’s shirt. “I think this one can go to Davy Jones, eh?” he said.

“And these,” said Jack Shaftoe, vaguely, plucking at his borrowed breeches; “I’m sorry, Jack, I’ve ruined ‘em quite utterly.”

“That you have,” Jack agreed, fighting a flush, “and yet—”

“Give ‘em to me, Mr Shaftoe,” said Martingale disingenuously, “and I’sh’ll dispose of ‘em for you.” Jack threw him a Look, and saw that the wretched boy had a wicked curve to the corners of his mouth, and some devilish light dancing in his eyes.

“Thank’ee,” said Jack Shaftoe, “but I’ve trouble with buttons, just now; Jack, could you lend a hand?”

Oh, it was too much, the pair of them ganging up to taunt him so; but Shaftoe’s face held none of the mischief that shone in Martingale’s sharp-nosed phizz. He just wanted out of those crusted, filthy trowsers. Jack swallowed, and bent obligingly to the plackets. The breeches were tight, being his own; it took two hands to manage the buttons, one slipping inside the waistband, and Jack’s fingers trembled as they swept across the hot silk of Shaftoe’s hip. He would jest about it, with anyone else; would leer, and say, _who’d’ve thought it, Mr Shaftoe_ , or _I’m better at this in the dark_ ; but could not trust himself to do it here and now, and have Shaftoe think it a joke. For it was not a joke, not to Jack.

With his good hand, Shaftoe pushed the breeches down, barely rescuing the cotton drawers he wore beneath as they were pulled down too, to sit so low that curls of bronze hair peeked above, and he stepped out of them, kicking them towards Martingale.

“That’ll be all,” said Jack in a strangled tone, and Martingale said, “Sir,” his voice brimming with suppressed mirth as he backed out, ostentatiously shutting the door.

*

In the charged quiet, Sparrow bade Jack sit while he cleaned his hand; there was a sharp, laval jolt of pain as the stump hit the water in the basin. The shock of hurt made Jack growl and frown, and then it subsided back into the thumping, ordinary level of pain that he was almost becoming accustomed to, and he fell quiet, mesmerised by Sparrow’s touch, hazy with fatigue and lust.

Aye, that was what it was, no point in denying the truth any longer; lust, utter and complete, though the fact of it no longer brought him to the point of rage that’d seen him push Sparrow against his cabin door and bite and suck at him like some animal. There was no resisting it, not here under laudanum’s sweet blanket; and Jack was sure, so sure, that Sparrow had been about to kiss him, or accept his kiss, before, and the churning weight which that certainty had brought with it had not left his chest since. But he sat placid, and let Jack Sparrow clean his hand, sure and quick; let him shake Enoch’s pale powder upon the raw stump, while flicking a glance up at Jack, and saying, “Are y’all right, can you bear it?”

He could; it stung fiery at first, and then quickly brought him a measure of cool numbness that felt as sweet as a waterfall on a stinking hot Caribbean afternoon. Ah, Enoch, well-met! Sparrow wrapped it in some fine cotton, and more over that, and yet more, until his hand was a single swaddled entity, and Jack laughed to see it: “’Twas only my finger, Jack, no more;” and Sparrow, scowling, said that he meant it to remain that way, and had no wish to watch Jack’s hand ooze and redden as it poisoned his blood, or to watch it blacken and die, and then to hold Jack down as they chased the gangrene up his limb with the bonesaw.

Sparrow stood before him now, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, splashed with pink water, a new wet rag in his hand; and Jack, almost free of pain, thanked him, and smiled up at him. Looking at him like this, he couldn’t help but think of the first time he’d seen Jack Sparrow, and his thoughts at that point; his dismay, his distaste; they seemed now to be the feelings of some other man, in some other world. Now, he looked at Jack Sparrow and saw wicked courage, and clever laughter, and golden heat, and a completely inexplicable beauty that could not, would not, be denied, no matter that it sat upon a man’s form. Now, he looked at him and could hear him saying, with that wild and mocking look in his eye, _you’ll always be wondering, mate_.

Jack had been too close to death today; and he’d learnt that he did not want to die wondering.

“And the rest of you, Jack?” Sparrow was saying. “D’you want to…? Or, shall I…?”

Jack felt a half-smile upon his face, and a swell down below at the thought of Sparrow’s hands upon him, and he said, “Please.”

Sparrow wet the cloth again, and squeezed it, and knelt between Jack's knees, his face level with Jack’s own; and his eyes, oh his eyes, were black and sparky, and Jack waited, impatient, for the pirate to lean closer; surely, surely he was going to give him what he craved, surely he knew?

But Sparrow did nothing save clean him; cleaned his shoulders, cleaned the base of his throat where blood still sat in the hollows of his collarbones; with slow care, cleaned Jack’s chest, and Jack fought a shudder as a hot finger (by chance or design, he could not tell) followed the rag across his peaky nipple. Cleaned across his ribs, toward his belly, which ached with tension; cleaned down the soft line of hair, and it was too much, oh, far too much. Jack stopped fighting the urge and let his prick fill and twitch, and did not care. Wanted Sparrow to see; to know.

And he did, and Jack saw his jaw tighten; he lifted his eyes, candid and unafraid, to meet Sparrow’s.

Jack Sparrow’s gaze was a confused mess of want, and guilt, and who knew what else, and the rag fell to the floor as Sparrow slowly put a hand to the side of Jack’s face.

“Jack,” he said, low and needy. “Jack, I’m so sorry for it; that I did not come in time.” As though it were something that needed saying; and Jack shook his head impatiently, and insisted, “Don’t be a fool, it was my doing, I got myself into that mess, and I’ll be fine; ‘sides, Jack, it ain’t my main thought, right now.” And he reached up his good hand under Jack Sparrow’s tangled hair, and pulled him closer, ‘til there was no more than a hand’s breadth between them, and he could smell the man, warm and musky and good. Sparrow made a small sound in his throat, but held still, pushing back against Jack’s insistent hand, and surely, surely he didn’t mean to refuse Jack this?

“You ain’t yourself,” whispered Sparrow. “You didn’t want this, before, Jack.”

“Yes, I did,” said Jack, determinedly. “I didn’t know it, but I did. I do.”

“Do what? D’you even know what it is that you want from me?”

“I want your mouth,” said Jack, in little more than a murmur, his belly lurching as he heard himself speak the words and saw their effect on Sparrow’s face; “I know that much; just give me that, and then… then I’ll figure out the rest.” And he leant in, and _oh, heaven!_ pressed his lips to Jack Sparrow’s.


	40. An Alchemical Prescription,  39

  
  
"I'll figure out the rest," Jack remembered saying, and he knew there was more that he wanted: but oh, _this_ was bliss, to feel Jack Sparrow's seductive mouth opening under the pressure of Jack's kiss; to feel Sparrow's tongue twining around his own, tentative at first and then not tentative at all but strong and needy and with an urgency to match Jack's. He'd dreamt of this, and whatever Sparrow said it wasn't just the laudanum. He'd dreamt of this before today.

And the kiss went on and on, Sparrow leaning into him, clearly having forgotten his cavilsome concerns, or at least cast 'em aside for now. Jack could hear his own voice, all wordless and low and demanding, though Sparrow did not seem inclined now to deny him what he wanted. Oh, he could kiss Jack Sparrow 'til the sun went down, 'til it came up again, 'til they both perished from thirst (a dull mundane thirst, nothing like the one he was assuaging) or hunger or the weight of their years. This kiss was sustenance enough, and it spread through his blood like Greek fire, all warm and unquenchable and glowing, driving out every last atom of pain and fear and fatigue.

There was more that he wanted, all right: and, in the quest for this 'more', it seemed only right and proper (and, oh! gloriously _improper_ ) that he should push his fingers -- the fingers of his good right hand -- through Jack Sparrow's thick black hair, hitching on snaggles and snarls. Oooh, that made Sparrow moan, and kiss him harder, and so Jack did it again. Again. His other hand, all swaddled in cruel cotton that kept him from feeling very much at all, pressed against Sparrow's shoulder and pulled him closer still; and if there was a little pain, a dull ache from where his finger'd been, why, he could drive it away simply by applying himself to this kiss, and the way it shimmered through every fibre of his body. His prick was hard as iron, and every heartbeat -- his heart, or Sparrow's? -- pounded in it, and by god he wanted more, but Jack Sparrow had promised him everything he wanted, hadn't he? And Sparrow was here, his mouth on Jack's, his tongue invading Jack's mouth: it tasted of salt and rum and smoke, and it pressed fervently against the ridges and bones inside Jack's mouth. Inside Jack: how strange and marvellous! And Jack, meantime, having asked for Sparrow's mouth and finding it freely given, was nonetheless claiming it for himself, sweeping his tongue across the smooth ivory and tingly gold of Sparrow's teeth, around and about and everywhere. His entire body ached with want and lust and a warm, dreamy pleasure: and he stretched forward into the kiss, eager for everything Sparrow could give him.

But Sparrow was drawing back, despite Jack's hold on him: drawing back, and Jack made a plaintive noise, and opened his eyes to meet that dark, wicked gaze.

"More, you say?" murmured Jack Sparrow, so close to Jack's face that he could feel the separate gust of each word. "Well, Jack, you've heard the saying: do unto others as you would be done by, eh?"

And oh, he wanted Sparrow, wanted the kiss again, wanted _more_ : but in the cunning gleaming curve of Sparrow's smile he read a challenge, and began to understand that he would have to ... to ... to figure it out, as he'd said he would: to take the upper hand.

Jack Shaftoe was seldom crippled by ignorance, but Christ, he felt it now. A part of him wanted to protest and complain the unfairness of this: _how in Hell,_ it demanded, _am I, Jack Shaftoe, s'posed to know the hidden arts of sodomy?_ Indeed, he opened his mouth to ask this very question of Jack Sparrow, so clearly an expert in these matters: but another part of Jack -- perhaps that Imp that plagued him so, perhaps the laudanum that still swirled and skirled around his veins, cooler and calmer than lust and yet not entirely unlike -- recognised a test when he saw one. Jack was determined to show Sparrow that he meant what he said; yes, meant it, wanted it, would take what he'd been offered, aye, and more, if he could find his way to it.

"Like that, is it?" he said, matching Sparrow's smile with a smirk of his own: and his hand, untangling itself (with more haste than gentleness) from Sparrow's hair, trailed down the pirate's filthy shirt, pressing hard enough to find the nub of a nipple, the ripple of ribs, the tense muscles of his belly. He longed to look upon Jack Sparrow's skin, half-glimpsed in lamplight and blazoned all fragmentary in his memories, and he set his fingers to the shirt-buttons, pulling and twisting -- crippled, too, by having but one functioning hand -- until the cotton fell away and he could _see_.

The sight of Jack Sparrow laid bare, the subtle shadows of muscle and bone, the smooth golden skin, the shiver of his pulse in the shimmery notch of his throat, was as good as a feast: yet Jack still wanted more. Feeling marvellously bold, he leaned in and set his tongue against that fluttery hollow, and _felt_ Sparrow's groan, and drew back just to see the look on his face. Oh lord, how Jack craved that look! He drew his hand lower (the mittened left still holding Sparrow close, in case he should come over all _gentlemanly_ again) and tucked his fingers into the sash about the pirate's narrow waist, seeking to unravel it.

* * *

Jack Sparrow was nearly delirious with the effort of not ravaging Shaftoe's lovely mouth, or wrapping his entire self around Jack Shaftoe's naked body: not quite naked yet, though those drawers hid very little, but Jack'd lay he could have Shaftoe out of 'em with a kiss and a caress. And yet, and yet: no matter how sincere Jack Shaftoe seemed to be about this _volte-face_ , 'twas merely the laudanum, or the shock, or maybe even his idea of a joke: and though Jack could hardly keep from laughing aloud with sheer exhilaration, he had seldom been further from mockery.

This, though heavenly, was Hell. Or Purgatory, perhaps. What clever demon had dreamt up such a torture, in which Jack Sparrow was required to be still while a glorious, lithe, _lustful_ man was fumbling one-handed with his clothes, with the clear intent of removing 'em item by item 'til Jack was as naked as his tormentor? And, worse, in which said tormentor was cursing with frustration against Jack's bare skin -- oh, _kissing_ and cursing -- while he struggled and swayed against Jack?

He would not force anything upon Jack Shaftoe. He would not. He --

"You'll have to lend me a hand, mate," said Shaftoe, and giggled. His eyes, once more fixed on Jack's, were drowningly blue, and his mouth, his mouth ... Oh, how could any man be expected to resist Jack Shaftoe when he was so clearly, so _literally_ , asking for it?

Jack groaned, and consigned himself to Purgatory, and said (in a voice that wobbled only slightly), "What is it you want me to do, Jack?"

"Well, _obviously_ it ain't right," said Shaftoe, beaming at him, "for you to stay clad, and me to be like _this_."

Jack looked at all that skin, and could not speak: but he nodded.

"But I find m'self a little _handicapped_ , ha ha: so if you'd be so kind as to assist with ..." Shaftoe's voice trailed off, and Jack saw some inspiration spark in that blue gaze.

Jack held his breath, fearing that Shaftoe had come to his senses and was about to recoil from or assault him, or both. But Christ, it was better -- worse -- than that, for Shaftoe was leaning forward, lowering his head, and Jack could feel the warm gale of Shaftoe's breath on his navel, and he glanced down as Shaftoe's strong teeth tugged at his sash, and Shaftoe's fingers --

Too much. Jack tore his gaze from the glorious sight and stepped back, almost unbalancing Shaftoe from his precarious perch on the edge of Jack's sea-chest.

"What, did I --"

Shaftoe was looking up at him (even _that_ was enough to make Jack's prick swell unbearably), and Jack could hardly keep from kissing that wounded expression away.

"Let me, eh? Just let me," he managed, distantly wondering at his uncustomary delicacy -- for what he meant was _One moment more of that and I'll spend_ \-- even while he fumbled at the knot of his sash, and then with the buttons of his breeches.

Shaftoe sat back and _watched_ Jack, eyes wide open, and the heat in his smile made Jack giddy. He kicked away his breeches and shrugged off his shirt, snarling when the rolled sleeves caught at his hands, and stood at last naked before Jack Shaftoe.

It must've been the heat, or that dizziness that Shaftoe's presence engendered in him, but for a moment he was reluctant to meet Shaftoe's eyes, afraid that, after all, Shaftoe would change his mind at the sight of, well, _everything_. But Shaftoe was standing, now, and coming to Jack, all certain and warm and interested; was looking at him with blatant desire, and reaching out his hand, and taking hold of Jack's yard without any hesitation at all; was pushing his face into Jack's hair, and murmuring against Jack's ear, "Aye, Jack, _this_ is what I meant."

Jack sighed, and let the moment overwhelm him. He'd required Shaftoe to do as he'd be done by: and now, with Shaftoe's hand on him, there was no possible purpose in holding back. Instead, he pulled at the waistband of Shaftoe's drawers until he could wrap his fingers around Shaftoe's firm, twitching yard. Shaftoe twisted against him, groaning, and Jack grinned and began to stroke him, long slow strokes that would (Jack profoundly hoped) inspire Shaftoe to even greater efforts. Not that Shaftoe seemed at all backward about touching Jack. There was a certain clumsiness to his movements that spoke to Jack of this being Shaftoe's first experience with another man -- clearly he _hadn't_ been in the Caribbean for long -- but he was kissing and biting at Jack's neck and then his mouth, his breath all choppy against Jack's tender skin, moaning and sighing and grinning all fierce and bright. And his hand, oh, his hand ...

Oh, there was so much that Jack wanted to do with Jack Shaftoe: so much that he wanted to show him, so much that he wanted to see writ on Shaftoe's face as he gave himself up eagerly to Jack Sparrow's arts. But, no matter this promise he'd somehow made to give Jack Shaftoe all he wanted, Jack'd vowed to _himself_ not to take undue advantage of the man's state: and though that state had Shaftoe writhing against Jack, urgent in his hand, hot and forceful against his lips, he'd do only as Shaftoe did.

Shaftoe was ahead of him, though, all tense and arched already, his wide blue gaze fixed on Jack's face, his mouth _oh Christ_ round and open, his cock spurting onto Jack's belly and his own wrist, and the feel of that -- and of _Jack Shaftoe's hand_ , which Jack vowed he'd never forget -- was enough to rush him over too, and make him spend in Shaftoe's slick palm.

Into the space between them rushed all the sounds of the world: terns crying, waves slapping the _Pearl_ 's black hull, the "Heave!" and "Ho!" of the capstan crew, the creak of cables. Time seemed to hang on a hinge, now, for Jack'd seen more than one man, afterwards, flinch from what he'd done whilst in the transports of desire, and it seemed awfully likely that Jack Shaftoe would regret everything. But Shaftoe, smiling beatifically, only leaned forward and kissed Jack, all soft and slow and lingering, and moved his sticky hand to Jack's waist to keep him close.

"Must I come to it all by myself?" he said at last, breaking the kiss and leaning his forehead against Jack's. "All I want? Or will you show me the rest of it, Jack?"


	41. impofperversity | An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter Forty

  


It was right on the cusp of sunset and dusk, but would be dark below, Jack knew; and he gave the helm over once more to Bootstrap, and took a lanthorn down. He did not want Jack Shaftoe to wake in the dark, alone, perhaps disoriented, perhaps in pain. Perhaps he should stop in at the galley, also; should bring him food, and rum in lieu of laudanum.

At the bottom of the companionway, looming in the dark, he encountered his newest passenger.

“Captain.”

“Mr Root,” said Jack formally, slightly suspicious of the smile playing about the corners of the alchemist’s half-hidden mouth.

“How fares your patient?”

“Well, I hope,” said Jack. “I’m on my way to verify that as we speak; but he was asleep when I left him.”

_Asleep, with late afternoon sunlight slanting across him, dust motes dancing like celebratory faeries, and it seemed a sin to cover him with even a sheet, to hide such glory from the world. More importantly, from Jack’s own greedy eyes. Jack has never seen a face that changes so much when its eyes close. But there is so much life and fire in Jack Shaftoe’s wild blue eyes that when they’re shut, he’s a different creature altogether. They closed so quickly, as soon as he’d lain his head upon Jack’s pillow; dark lashes on sun-browned cheeks had made Jack’s blood surge all over again, and he’d crouched by the cot and kissed Shaftoe’s swollen mouth; and at first Shaftoe hummed and kissed him back, but by the time Jack had had his (temporary) fill, and ended the kiss, Jack Shaftoe had been asleep._

“And the wound? Did my preparation help with the pain?”

“He seemed remarkably untroubled by it,” Jack said, in a sublime piece of understatement.

“I have more, if needed. It’s less… invasive, than laudanum.”

Jack snorted. “Mr Shaftoe’s issue was less with the _laudanum_ than with his _dosage_ , Enoch. I’m not going to tell you how much he drank.”

Enoch smiled. “He’s not a man of half-measures, our Mr Shaftoe.”

“No.”

_”Show me, Jack; show me all, everything…”_

_“All you want, eh, just as I… promised?”_

_“’Twas the ghost of you, that came to me in that cellar,” and Shaftoe gave Jack a lazy, wonderfully dirty smile that told him that this ghost was a thoroughly lustful one. That told him that Jack Shaftoe’s own imagination had seduced him with Jack Sparrow’s image. Jack nodded as if this was one of his standard seduction techniques, sending his spectral self in to do the job in his absence. Shaftoe’s body was still moving slow and sweet against his; Shaftoe’s hot breath was hovering about his ear, murmuring, “Show me, show me, show me.” Jack felt weak with it. Fearless Jack Shaftoe had opened this door and wanted everything, everything that lay behind it. No half-measures, indeed._

_No, no: make that, fearless **drugged** Jack Shaftoe._

_“I shall,” whispered Jack, “I shall show you, give you, anything and everything, an you want it still tomorrow.”_

_The low growl in his ear was as frustrated as he himself was, at these words._

_“You need to sleep,” he said, and as if that was some a magic word, he felt Shaftoe sag against him, and he walked his weight backwards, to the cot. Lay him down. Eyes closed. Kiss. Sleep._

“I told you, when you took me to Guyana, did I not, that you would like him. Though I’d no idea, of course, that you’d rescue him in such a manner.”

“He rescued himself, you could say,” said Jack, and he talked of the island and Don Alejandro’s cellar both with those words.

“And,” said Enoch casually, “I’d no idea that you’d like him so _much_.”

“What’s it to you, Mr Root, if I do?” said Jack, not bothering to argue the point now that it seemed to be a reciprocated sentiment.

“Jack Shaftoe’s a man of the world, true enough, Captain; and yet, you may find, in some respects, he’s been rather… sheltered.”

Jack held the lanthorn higher, to check whether Root was laughing at him, but he wore a diplomatic neutrality. “I fail to see, Enoch, how a man that looks as Jack Shaftoe does could’ve been _sheltered_ from the simple facts of life.”

“He and his brother spent a large portion of their formative years as regimental mascots. They were forcibly protected from some of the more… unapproved forms of friendship that were offered to them.”

“’Zat why he seemed to consider me the purest devil for a while?” said Jack, smirking because he could apparently apply the past tense to this statement, and undeniably fascinated by this scraplet of Shaftoe-history. No wonder he fought like Achilles (or at least as Achilles might've done if he hadn’t been averse to the odd underhanded technique).

“Has he changed his mind?” enquired Enoch, inscrutable in the dim light.

“He’s certainly reconsidering his position.” Jack had always had an unpleasant tendency toward smugness, and it was being siphoned out of him in vast quantities by this situation. “So if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and check on him now. Glad to see that you decided to come with us, by the way, and we’ll talk later I’m sure.”

“I’m sure. And, here; he may need it,” said Enoch, and presented Jack with another small packet of powder.

*

Heat was the first true sensation that came to him; heat, and then a dim red light behind his closed eyelids. The warmth came from his hand, his arm; and as soon as he realised this, he was flooded with true awakening, and remembrance.

_Jack Sparrow, naked and narrow, golden and fierce, standing before him with a look of uncertain challenge on his face, and a cockstand that oh God suddenly seemed to Jack the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen and all he wanted was to touch, to hold, to feel, and when he did, when he gave up on all his foolish cavils and rules, it was hot silk on steel and Jack Sparrow gasped at his touch and touched him back._

_Touched him back and it was like an earthquake through his body; he couldn’t breathe, made a strange animal sound, was drowning in it, taken by it, thrusting and pushing and biting, and Sparrow pushed right back; as strong as Jack himself, as eager as Jack, his long fingers wrapped and stroking tight and hard, and Jack’s entire being was concentrated right there on that hand, on that hand on his cock, and he couldn’t even kiss, couldn’t do anything, it was all happening to him—in him—through him bright and ferocious and so sweet it hurt, so sweet and good and strong he wanted to howl._

His eyes flew open, his heart beating hard from the recall of it. There was a lanthorn on the table; Jack Sparrow sat upon the corner of his sea chest, watching him. Jack just stared for a long moment. Jack Sparrow, clothed again, which seemed most dreadfully wrong, and made Jack awfully aware of the ragged sheet covering his own bare skin. He seemed to’ve spent a lot of time, insufficiently dressed, in Sparrow’s company lately.

“How d’you feel?” said Sparrow, his head to one side. “Your hand?”

Jack tried to concentrate on the answer to that question. It could’ve been worse. Hot, swollen, thumping. He shrugged. “I’ll live,” and then thought to add, “‘Twould be better for some painkilling tonic though, should you have one to hand.”

Sparrow grinned rather sardonically. “Sadly, I’ve none, Mr Shaftoe.” (Jack bit back an argument to the effect that Sparrow’s kiss might constitute such a thing.) “Though Enoch did provide more of this powder, should you not object to a re-bandaging.”

Jack sighed. No more laudanum, then. Bollocks. “Save it,” he said, vaguely.

There was a small silence, and Sparrow shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He said nothing of what’d passed between them; and Jack did not know whether to bring it up, whether to say, _sorry about before_ , or _was it all right?_ , or _come here and do that to me again_. The situation was so far outside of his experience that he was temporarily adrift. Had Sparrow been a girl, he would’ve perhaps complained of his pain; suggested a kiss to assuage it, with a grin that told her that it was no great concern. But Sparrow was no girl. And Sparrow wanted… perhaps, wanted…

Ah, Christ, how did you say to a fellow that you’d no intention of giving up your arse to him, but wouldn’t mind attempting some other solution to the problem? Jack had no idea, none.

Well, perhaps he had one idea.

“Is it late?” he enquired, parenthetically. “How long’ve I been sleeping?”

“A few hours, quite a few; ‘tis near midnight, now. You hungry?”

“No. You must be tired.”

“Bin watching out for you.”

“I’m still tired.”

“Sleep, go on.”

The shorter the utterances became, the more they seemed to say; the more Jack Sparrow’s black eyes filled with meaning, the more Jack understood him. Until he had the courage to pull back the sheet, to wriggle across to the far side of the narrow cot, and say nothing at all; just to look at Sparrow, and grin, and ask silently for his presence.

The smile that came to Sparrow’s face was the truest, sweetest thing that Jack’d ever seen upon it, and he stood, and slowly took off his clothes. And Jack was thrown back to that first night they’d shared this room; when he’d turned his back upon Jack Sparrow, and heard every sound of his undressing; when Sparrow had teased and taunted him and wandered about the cabin to allow Jack every opportunity of seeing his skin. And Jack hadn’t looked, had peeked for no more than a mere second and then had rolled over, and what in hell had been wrong with him; could there be anything more lovely to set eyes on?

Sparrow, as naked as Jack himself, climbed into the cot, and Jack took a great heaving breath as a knee touched his thigh. He’d said he was tired, but what a lie that was; he’d never felt more alert in his life.

_I’m naked, naked with a naked man, a pirate, in his cot, in his cabin, and his touch made me spend. And how, how do I ask for it again, for that and more?_

Sparrow lay down beside him, watching him; not touching him. Jack felt utterly, utterly aware of every beat of his heart, every loud breath. There was no laudanum fog about him now. None. He stared, hypnotised, at the lovely face before his on the pillow. A man’s face; a bearded face; a wide shoulder. So strange, so exciting; his cock filled warmly, pushing forward, and they both stopped breathing as it encountered some other hard, warm flesh.

“You’re not _that_ tired, then,” said Jack Sparrow.

“Apparently not,” agreed Jack; and he waited, revelled in the waiting, for a good ten seconds (ten seconds of the most delightful, glorious, blood-thumping, prick-swelling, gut-roiling anticipation of his life) before reaching out and pulling Jack Sparrow towards him by those mesmerisingly ridiculous beard braids, pulling those hot strong lips to his own, and kissing him like he meant it. Really, really meant it, and if anything, it felt better now (now, when he was clear and himself; now, with no sweet honeyed maziness smeared over his world) than it had been before. Sparrow’s mouth opened pliant beneath his; Sparrow’s hand, hotter than embers, slid over his ribs, coming to rest on his shoulder blade, pulling him forward, and Jack could not hold back a noise as their bodies chests bellies thighs _unh_ cocks met again.

Above them, up on deck, a bell sounded.

“You said,” Jack muttered, his heart pounding, “that if I still wanted it on the morrow, you’d show me.”

“Aye,” said Sparrow.

“’Tis the morrow, now,” said Jack, and he laid his hand on the warm curve of Jack Sparrow’s hip.


	42. An Alchemical Prescription,  41

  
  
Jack Sparrow was tremendously inclined to give over thinking and simply indulge himself -- and Shaftoe, of course -- in all sorts of filthy, decadent ways. Here they were, after all, naked on a bed together, and all the better for that bed being narrow enough to crowd Jack Shaftoe against him, knees thighs prick chest mouth. Here they were, and Jack's heart leapt at the immediacy of it. But a talkative little corner of his brain was still berating him gleefully: _just think,_ it was saying, _all that fuss about the damned laudanum, and here's Jack Shaftoe sober as a judge and not one whit less enthusiastic. Why, you could've been ..._

No use in bemoaning the missed opportunities of yesterday, though, when today -- mere moments old -- was already presenting him with so many more. Jack Shaftoe, all warm and sleepy (though perhaps his assertion of sleepiness had been a _ruse_ , for he seemed remarkably awake now) was pressed against Jack, having invited Jack into his own bed with a heated, eager look that was all the more eloquent for Shaftoe's silence, and made room for him in a way that promised more than mere proximity. He was running his hot right hand over the muscled curve of Jack's arse: kissing Jack, rubbing against him, making soft delighted little noises as his yard nudged against Jack's, and looking at him all clear-eyed and smiling.

Jack wondered how far he'd be willing to go.

"Tell me, Jack," he murmured, trying not to push too hard against Shaftoe's bandaged hand as it brushed against his chest, "tell me what you want."

"What, and I thought _you_ were the expert on these matters, Captain Sparrow!" said Shaftoe archly. "Magnet for that sort, or so you claimed: surely you've _something_ to teach me?"

Jack's thoughts were all awhirl. It'd been too long, too long -- indeed, the last time he'd been this close to anyone (his earlier interlude with Jack Shaftoe most 'specially excepted) it'd been a _girl_ , surely? -- and though Shaftoe's appetite, like all the rest of him, was bright and expansive and fearless, Jack did not care to test it too rigorously. Not yet. Only days ago, this man (whose hips were canted to push against Jack's, whose hand was reaching 'round to nudge Jack's thigh up over his own) had been declaring himself no man's catamite: had let himself be marooned by the _Santa Ana_ rather than accept her late, unlamented captain's advances. Jack's vanity (and his prick) swelled further.

"More than you can possibly imagine, Jack," he promised, tracing a spiral around Shaftoe's peaked nipple, and smiling more as a Stratagem occurred to him. "Yet ... pardon me, but I'd thought _you_ an inventive man, quick-witted, able to _rise_ to any challenge." His hand dipped lower to test the extent of Shaftoe's erection, and Shaftoe gasped and grinned. "Didn't think you'd be the sort to lie back and let someone else do all the work."

Shaftoe sighed theatrickally. "Ignorant as they come, me," he argued, beaming. "I mean, _obviously_ it ain't the same as being with a girl, now is it?"

"Well, there are certain similarities," said Jack thoughtfully, running his tongue along his lower lip. "I mean, _this_ is different." He wrapped his fingers around the impressive length of Shaftoe's yard and pulled, gently. "An' _this_ ," he ducked down and swiped his tongue across Shaftoe's nipple, gauging his reaction, "ain't quite the same, neither. But all in all, Mr Shaftoe, you'd be surprised how much of your repertoire can be adapted for use in a variety of situations."

He edged his knee higher, inviting Shaftoe's hand, oh yes, to explore, to cup his balls (Jack groaned, and threw his head back so that Shaftoe's avid mouth could press against his throat) and Shaftoe's hot prick to slide into Jack's fist.

"Not bad for a beginner," said Jack sweetly, when he was sure of his voice again. "But --"

"I'm _not_ a bloody beginner!" protested Shaftoe, all flushed.

Jack blinked wide-eyed at him. "Well, you can't have it both ways," he said. "Or maybe there was something you weren't telling me about --"

Oh God, _that_ was it: Jack Shaftoe's kiss, all insistent and forceful and sweet as honey. Jack moaned into it and kissed him back, letting himself be pushed down upon the bed, letting Shaftoe roll atop him -- growling as he jolted his damaged hand against the mattress -- and pin him there with his whole body, rocking his hips against Jack's, his right hand pushing Jack's thighs apart ... Oh, this was Heaven, Jack Shaftoe all Provok'd to action and taking to it (Jack could tell) like, like a duck to water, like a Bacchante to wine, like a man who hadn't known what he was missing. Jack felt him falter a moment, his mouth stilling on Jack's, as though he'd remembered all his refusals and reservations: but a moment later they were kissing again, and Shaftoe's whole hot body was moving against Jack's. Jack wound his arms across Shaftoe's wide, warm back and held him close, and felt Jack Shaftoe's yard rub moistly 'gainst his own. Oh, he wanted more, all right: he was with -- _indubitably_ with, couldn't be much _more_ with -- Jack Shaftoe on the subject of More. But this would do, for now: there was no rush.

* * *

That earlier encounter, Sparrow's hand all slick and quick on Jack's yard, felt long ago and far away, lost in a lovely opiate haze. Jack Shaftoe would not think on't now, for to gloat on that warm happy pleasure would take his attention from the fact of Jack Sparrow _now_ , all bare and golden and sinewy against him, and Jack would not spare an instant's thought for anything but that.

And being here, now, like this with Jack Sparrow was very like being drugged, for Jack could feel every drop of his blood as it coursed through his body and stretched his prick, and every atom of sensation -- the scratch of Sparrow's beard against Jack's throat, the slide of his palm across Jack's ribs, the sticky prodding of his yard next to Jack's own -- was vivid and arousing and _interesting_ , in a way that Jack didn't remember ever having felt before. O, very like being drugged: yet he'd seldom felt more focussed and alive. And the way he wanted laudanum -- for, oh yes, that faraway glow of pain -- was nothing to the way he craved Jack Sparrow, more of Sparrow. He'd a hunch that it'd always be 'more!', that he'd never have his fill --

'Fill': the word jolted him out of the honeyed fizz and flow of sensation for a moment, for wasn't that that what this was all about? Wasn't Jack Sparrow, warm naked Jack Sparrow, here solely to persuade Jack into lying back and letting himself be buggered?

_He's making a jolly fine pretence of enjoying the preliminaries,_ Jack noted. And, too, he hadn't resisted when Jack'd rolled him over and borne him down: hardly the manner of a man intent on taking what he wanted. Indeed, Jack Sparrow seemed keener on Jack getting what _he_ wanted. Problem was, he wanted two wildly, insanely, exclusively different things: he wanted to fuck someone, to get deep inside and try for deeper; and he wanted Sparrow in his arms, in all his gilded gaudy glory, humming and kissing and laughing and responsive.

No use thinking about it: none of it made sense.

"So I'm to treat you like a girl, eh?" he said guilelessly, setting his hand once more on Sparrow's twitching yard.

"Treat me however you like, mate," said Sparrow, his voice all low and laughing. Oh, that was a challenge, all right, and Jack was quite positively determined to rise to it -- he chuckled -- and show Sparrow that, never mind his _complete ignorance of sodomy_ , he'd a notion or two of what a man might like. Assuming, at least, that a sodomite would care for the same sort of things as Jack himself.

Jack propped himself up (his left hand twinging as the elbow took his weight) and leaned down to swipe his tongue over the sculpted notch of Sparrow's collarbone, and was wildly gratified at the noise that Sparrow made. Emboldened, he licked a line down over Sparrow's smooth chest, over the white line of a knife-wound, and sucked a dark nipple into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue, biting gently (Sparrow surged up against him, moaning) and then sucking the hurt away. Oh, this was _brilliant_ : Jack had never felt so powerful, so puissant, and his mind flooded with memories of all the wicked arts that various females had practiced upon him over the last decade. He swirled his thumb over the tender head of Sparrow's yard, and then pressed just at the seam of it.

"Oh Christ Jack," Sparrow groaned, and thrust up into Jack's hand. Oh, this was easy! Jack swayed up for another deep, long kiss, half-kneeling above Sparrow to make room for their hands to move on one another. Sparrow knew what he was doing, Jack'd give him that: his hand was just tight enough, teasingly slow and random, and his mouth opening soft and wide against Jack's, all round and provocative and ...

Jack's heart pounded with invention, with appetite, and then with trepidation: for surely, by the simple act of _imagining_ , he'd committed himself to all manner of nameless torments. And hark, there was a howl of outraged disgust from off-stage: the Imp, no doubt. But wait, was it outrage, was it disgust? Might it not be glee and encouragement? Jack plumped for the latter. He had Jack Sparrow at his mercy, all reactive and aroused and ... beautiful, Jack supposed: he hadn't the word for how Sparrow looked in the lanthorn-light, stretched out all taut and shivery at Jack's touch. A man would be a fool not to indulge himself.

Back in the Isle of Dogs, as boys, he and Bob'd dared one another to all manner of messy and impractical feats: sprinting across the pig-pen before the sow could get you, leaping across (or more frequently halfway 'cross) the sluggish brook that served for sanitation, holding your hand in the candle-flame for the count of five, telling blind Mother Crawley that there was a gold coin in the privy. Now Jack (chuckling at the thought of Bob's face, should he ever hear of _this_ challenge) dared himself to act on his imaginings: and quickly, before his conscience or the Imp could get to mocking, he rocked back and swooped down and set his mouth to Jack Sparrow's prick.

It was not at all as he'd expected: hotter, and bigger, and all salt and musk and a smeary bitterness. For a moment Jack thought better of it -- never mind how good it might feel from the other side, so to speak -- and almost drew back: but then Sparrow cried out, and his long agile fingers were clenching a hank of Jack's hair, not quite holding him in place but certainly encouraging him to stay there, and he was clamouring Jack's name, and a kind of babbled eulogy: "oh Christ Jack Shaftoe you unbelievable wonderful, oh Jack, where d'you, oh Christ you're going to make me, I'm going to, oh bloody hell Jack your mouth."

Jack recalled enough of how this'd felt -- though it'd been a while since he'd found a girl who _would_ \-- to know that the tightening of Sparrow's prick, the way it swelled impossibly against his lips, the paroxysm that arched Sparrow up from the bed, all presaged a climacteric event that he did not, just now, feel able to deal with in the traditional manner. Instead, he raised his head and tightened his hand, and not a moment too soon.

Later on he would remember everything: the rasp of Sparrow's breath, the little cry he made, the warm viscid plash of seed against his throat, cooler and thicker than blood, the knowledge of what it was almost enough to make him spend in Sparrow's loosened hand. But what chiefly engaged him at the time was the sight before him as he stared up the length of Jack Sparrow's body, across all that shimmery skin, to the sheer exuberant surprise of Sparrow's smile.

And then Jack Sparrow's hands were on Jack, hauling him up the bed to be kissed and licked and exalted, and Jack thought, _I've done it. I've done it now._  



	43. impofperversity | An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter Forty-Two

  


He wanted to laugh, to dance, to babble his delight, to hold Jack Shaftoe so close and tight that the two of them would somehow fuse, and the strength and energy of Shaftoe’s delicious wiry body would be his, not just here and now, but in all the days to come. He could not keep from smiling as he licked a long greedy swipe, up Shaftoe’s throat, over his Adam’s apple, cleaning him. Cleaning him, and cleaning him, and then kissing him; with a clear and definite purpose in mind. Shaftoe’d come to it himself, sure enough, and put his mouth willingly and well to Jack; but then, one could not help but note, he’d _removed_ said glorious orifice at a rather Vital Juncture, and Jack found him all the more delicious for it. It was particularly arousing, in fact, to’ve explored right to one of the edges of Jack Shaftoe’s belligerent courage; and even more so, as now, to try to push him over it.

To which end, Jack slid a slick tongue between Shaftoe’s lips, and felt the muscled abdomen which lay upon his own go taut as Shaftoe tasted the change in Jack’s mouth, tasted the seed that Jack’d licked from the notch of his throat. Shaftoe made a mumbling, complaining sort of a noise; but he did not stop twisting his own tongue about Jack’s, and Jack could smell his own salty sweat on Shaftoe’s face as he kissed him. Delightfully, wonderfully unexpected, that’d been. He’d been sure he’d have to at least _hint_.

“If you _are_ , as you claim, a beginner, Mr Shaftoe,” he murmured, “I must say you show a certain aptitude. _Flair_ , even.”

Shaftoe did not rise to the gentle bait; he was lying half on top of Jack, half beside him, and still hard as steel against Jack’s hip; moving, almost unconsciously, against Jack, and oh, how Jack longed to explore all of that, to return the favour, if Shaftoe’d have it!

“Well,” said Shaftoe, “we should both be grateful, eh, for my Beginner’s Luck; for, though you’ve made a number of claims of Advanced Knowledge, you’ve yet to _demonstrate_ anything particularly novel to me.” And he licked, thoughtfully it seemed, at Jack’s face, and down to his ear, in a way that made Jack squirm and laugh (squirm and laugh in a way that made Shaftoe do it again, and then again) till Jack’s recently overwhelmed nerves could take it no more; and he pushed at Shaftoe’s shoulder, threw a leg over him and rolled him onto his back; straddled him, and looked down upon him in the glowering lamplight.

Wondering: just how much _novelty_ are you up for, Mr Jack Shaftoe?

He pulled his hair to one side and bent low, leaning with his elbows either side of Shaftoe’s face, letting his chest touch lightly, letting his belly slide subtle over Shaftoe’s yard, not yet giving him the pressure he so clearly craved. “So, Jack; can I take it, then, that you’ve just, as requested, done as you would be done by?” And he licked his lips, nipped the lower between his teeth, and saw Shaftoe’s nostrils flare.

“Oh, fuck, yes,” said Shaftoe, and his hands, one so broad and warm, the other no more than a scratch of cotton, were on Jack’s back, tugging at him. Jack resisted, gently, grinning.

“And yet, clearly, ‘t’wouldn’t be anything _novel_.”

“I suspect,” said Shaftoe, with a grin that showed those sharp incisors, “you’d find some way to make it so. ‘Sides which, Jack, a certain degree of novelty’s included in the mere fact that it’s _you_.”

“Me? Oh… you mean, scary, _masculine_ me.”

“Do fellows always talk this much? Or is it only when they’ve relieved their own pressures, and are failing to reciprocate?”

“I, failing? Never, I ‘sure you. But you’ve never left a lady unsatisfied, is that it?”

“Not as unsatisfied as this, I swear.” This last was accompanied, rather forcefully, by a flex of hip and arm that ground Shaftoe’s enthusiasm up into Jack’s torso, and sent new flickers of interest through his body. Jack grinned; ah, ‘twas a fine and toothsome thing, to be able to tease Jack Shaftoe, after all that bloody self-restraint.

“All right then,” he said, bending to bite at Shaftoe’s neck, where strands of blond hair stuck sweatily, “I dare say I could do something about that, if you’d care to ask nicely.”

Shaftoe, instead of doing as bid (and oh, how Jack wanted to hear it; to hear that rough-edged voice demand his touch, demand his mouth, demand any sweet and filthy thing that Jack Shaftoe cared to have inflicted ‘pon him) laughed: “I’ll do no such bloody thing,” he declared.

“Ohhh… why?” murmured Jack, plaintive, licking up behind Shaftoe’s ear.

“Because,” said Shaftoe, as his unwrapped hand moved lower, lower, fingers digging into Jack’s buttocks, “I don’t see why I should be begging for something that you’re so clearly _longing_ to do.”

A hot coil in Jack’s gut. “’Zat so?” he muttered, and bit Shaftoe’s earlobe.

“Yes,” whispered Shaftoe, and pushed up against Jack again, again, oh so sure, “You want to, you know it, I know it…” his mouth so close now, soft beard tickling Jack’s ear, his voice so low, “You want me in your mouth, Jack Sparrow, you want my cock in your mouth.”

At which point Jack became entirely incapable of any further taunting; for it was the truest thing he’d heard all day (not to mention the most wildly inflammatory) and all he could say was, “You have a point,” as he scrambled down the great lovely length of Jack Shaftoe’s body, till he knelt betwixt his spread thighs; and it couldn’t’ve been a lovelier organ, he’d swear, skin stretched to shining and silvered liquid glinting there. He did, indeed, want it in his mouth; in his mouth, his hand, his arse, anywhere and everywhere, and had Shaftoe given him any indication during this delicious night that he didn’t want the same? Oh no, oh no; and Jack felt like the luckiest man alive, tonight, to have Jack Shaftoe laid out before him, panting and clutching and gleaming and demanding.

Luck, aye; but a man makes his own luck; and Jack reached, surreptitious, under his mattress, for a little more _luck_ to ease the way.

*

Jack Sparrow didn’t half make a fellow work for it, one way or another; he was certainly not like any of Jack’s previous Caribbean encounters, pawing and grabbing. And even now, even when Jack _knew_ with a desperate certainty (who could possibly misinterpret that face, the bitten lip, the gripping fingers, the gently re-swelling cock) that Sparrow wanted this, still he was so slow, so cruelly, beautifully slow that Jack was close to wincing, close to begging, close to spending with or without assistance; and by the time that cunning voluptuary’s mouth had traced its winding way down his chest, over his hips, across a thigh, down toward his balls (Jack’s legs spread of their own accord, there was no thought to it) the quiver had taken his whole being; by the time hot breath was hovering over his cock, and hands were stroking thighs hips belly, one tucking under his arse and stretching fingers wide, pushing him up, he needed no encouragement, and there were finally finally lips, so hot and soft and strong, on the pulsing head of his yard, so good he groaned; and looked down for the full strange wonder of it, of such a familiar (and yet somehow _amplified_ ) pleasure being granted by the mouth of a man.

And the sight (o, more: _vision_ ) of Jack Sparrow’s beautiful oddity, his great black eyes looking up at Jack as he took Jack further and further into his mouth, his throat; Jack could barely breathe, had no sense left in him at all, and was quite blissfully vague as to the source of his pleasure, whether it might be the tongue swirling about him, or the blistering heat of that throat, or the hand which traced swirling curlicues over his body, or the other slick hand which fondled him, stroking his balls, the shivering crease of his thighs; he lay splayed and gasping, swaddled hand dangling in air, strong one twisting sheet between its fingers as his heart sped and sped. That warm spring deep inside wound itself tight and tighter, readying for release, ah God any moment, just hold on Jack, hold on to this a little longer, it’s so good, so good, so good and pushing pushing but Jack Sparrow could take it all, wanted it all, and his cheeks hollowed, his throat opened, his hand gentled and adored and Jack took a deep shivery gaspy breath as he felt his balls draw up and what the _fuck_ is—

“Jesus!” shouted Jack, and lost the tiny bit of control that he’d been applying with all his might, and spilt hotly and suddenly, crying out again as he felt Sparrow’s throat constrict about him with swallowing, ah, ah, ah, so very very, _but_ —

Jack pushed himself up to sitting before he’d entirely finished, wrenching away from Sparrow’s mouth and hands and scrambling back up the bed, enraged. “You—you—”

“What?” cried Sparrow, trying for a look of innocent dismay but being foiled by a flush in his cheeks and an irrepressible quiver at the corner of his mouth.

“You—you stuck your finger, up, up my arse, you filthy—”

“Ah, come on now, Jack, what do you mean by calling me filthy, your cock was halfway down my throat, man! Besides, whatever happened to _show me everything_?”

“You were showing me plenty, and I was quite content with that, in case you couldn’t tell.” Jack crouched at the head of the bed, scowling his displeasure at Sparrow. For the love of God! Buccaneers, all the same; he should’ve known better than to give him an inch. All that trying to make it seem as though Sparrow was concerned for Jack’s own pleasure, all that _only if you wish it_ and _tell me what you want_ ; nothing but a complicated and novel approach to Jack Shaftoe’s rear entrance.

“But Jack—”

“But nothing; it ain’t up for negotiation.” Jack folded his arms belligerently across his chest.

Sparrow looked at him for a sparky, angry moment, and then laughed (which only made Jack more annoyed) and stretched himself out on his thin side of the cot, ankles crossed and hands behind his head (which did distract Jack from his irritation somewhat).

“All right,” he said peaceably, “’tis your corpus, Mr Shaftoe, I ain’t about to attempt any forcible occupation. Can we not put that aside, and p’rhaps you’d let me know which elements of our congress _were_ in fact to your liking? Come on, lie down, your pretty arse is safe with me.”

“Pretty?” snorted Jack. “A fellow’s arse is not _pretty_ , Jack.” As soon as he’d said it he knew it was a stupid thing to say to Jack Sparrow, and sure enough, the pirate had rolled onto his side and was cheerfully slapping his elegantly curvaceous behind and demanding a considered opinion of its (undeniable) charms.

To speak the truth would, of course, merely invite comparison with his own, and a demand of why Sparrow should not find Jack’s arse _pretty_ , then, Mr-Hypocrite-Shaftoe? So Jack just laughed and gave in and lay down beside him, changing the subject by muttering into his neck, “Other elements, as you say, were _very_ much to my liking, Captain Sparrow.”

“Well, at least you’re honest about _that_ ,” said Sparrow, wriggling round to face Jack once more.

“I’ve been nothing but honest,” Jack exaggerated, with a grin.

“Then tell me—honestly—what it is that made you look at me as though you were about to knock out several of my teeth, even as you spilt, so delightfully, in my throat?” muttered Jack Sparrow, licking his lips at the end of this statement, and tilting his head back on the pillow, the better to see Jack.

“I told you already; you put your—”

“Yes, yes, I’m not disputing it; I’m merely asking why _that_ was so utterly unacceptable? What’s so dysfunctional about your arse, mate?”

“What d’you mean, dysfunctional?” demanded Jack, perversely offended, and Sparrow gave an eloquent shrug; one hand traced the lines of Jack’s ribs, lazily.

“Well, what makes you think _you_ wouldn’t like it, when everybody else—”

“’Everybody else’ does not like having foreign objects inserted into their—”

“Well, _I_ do.”

Jack’s face flamed, and he screwed his eyes shut, and the cot shook, silently, with Jack Sparrow’s laughter.

“No, seriously, Jack; it’s got its good points, I swear t’you,” the pirate managed, after a moment.

“So do many things I’d rather have naught to do with; so does the bloody Pox,” snapped Jack, and then added, a little too late, “or so they say.”

“Aye, you too, eh?” said Sparrow, apparently unperturbed by this, and quite willing to swerve off in a new conversational direction; “I thought I saw’t. You’re right, it ain’t all bad. Makes you brilliant, in turns with mad, till the mad takes the upper hand. Made me half the man I am today, I reckon."

Jack looked up questioningly at Sparrow when he heard the words _you too, eh_ , and saw the confirmation in a smile and a shrug. He could not hold back a sudden sweep of sadness at the thought that bright Jack Sparrow shared his ugly fate, closely followed by the realisation of how bloody obvious it was, really, come to think of it. Still: lunacy mightn’t be such a trial, if one had Jack Sparrow to go mad alongside.

P’rhaps, in fact, being here with Jack Sparrow was itself a symptom of Jack’s disease; at any rate, there was no call to fret over something so very inevitable. There was only call to suck up the life that was left, and enjoy it; and so he pulled Sparrow into his arms, and kissed him roundly, and advised him that he was forgiven for the arse incident, providing the subject was never brought up again.


	44. An Alchemical Prescription,  43

  
  
Jack Shaftoe came awake quickly and unfussily like the soldier he'd been from time to time: and like a soldier in enemy territory he lay still and silent for a moment, assessing the situation.

His brain, quite unfogged by laudanum now (better do something about _that_ , thought Jack) presented him with an instantaneous précis of the day, and night, preceding: Jack Sparrow naked; Jack's hand on his yard; Sparrow's hand on Jack's; Jack's _mouth_ (and his lips parted again, now, in a soundless 'o' at that memory) on Sparrow's hot musky prick; then Jack Sparrow's on himself; oh, but then Sparrow's bloody _finger_ ...

Christ, but he'd come hard.

Not that that lent any weight to Sparrow's ludicrous claims. Jack could still feel the strange aching pressure of that finger inside him: his arsehole twitched at the remembered stretch. As if anyone could enjoy _that_ , thought Jack, beating back the memory of Sparrow confessing -- nay, _asserting_ \-- "Well, _I_ do."

In search of some distraction, Jack opened his eyes: then narrowed them immediately, for the cabin was full of lemon-coloured light, bright enough to wound. He was lying on his side, and somewhere on the pillows above his head his damaged hand (whole this time yesterday) flared with pain like a distant beacon at night. Jack tried to clench the bandaged fist, and though his fingers would hardly bend the ghost of the smallest digit roared bright red. He swallowed and set himself to simply breathing until the pain receded.

There were, it turned out, more pleasurable sensations to dwell upon. He was in Jack Sparrow's bed, and Sparrow's hot, slender body was pressed against him like an especially lively blanket from shoulder to ankle. Their legs, indeed, were tangled together, and Jack's right hand was spread across Sparrow's chest like a man making some sort of claim: and, oh, his prick, morning-hard, had pointed itself at the sweetly pillowing cleft of Sparrow's arse. Jack was distantly aware that this was Wrong and Repulsive, but nevertheless could not resist the opportunity to push his hips forward, just a little, just nudging at that enticing mysterious space. It didn't feel repulsive, he had to admit. It felt _lovely_.

But then -- Jack set his teeth -- there was a huff of laughter that he could feel where his chest pressed against Sparrow's scarred back, and Sparrow was curving against him all compliant, legs spreading, humming at the slide of Jack's prick. Jack could feel the soft velvety heat of Sparrow's balls against his cockhead, and he wanted to push and thrust: wanted to spend himself stickily between Sparrow's taut, hard thighs. His hand slid down Sparrow's chest, aiming for the opportunity of returning the general pleasure, if not the specific sensation.

"Doin' as you'd be done by again, Mr Shaftoe?" murmured Sparrow, chuckling, as though he'd read Jack's thoughts: and he spread his thighs invitingly wider.

Jack scowled and twisted away. Bloody pirate, taking an innocent (well, all right, perhaps not _entirely_ innocent) bit of play and turning it awry! He flopped onto his back and prepared to sulk: but Sparrow was turning -- almost tumbling off the edge of the narrow cot -- and pressing the front of himself, most emphatically fit for reciprocation, against Jack instead. His prick, hard as Jack's own, slid and ground 'gainst Jack's thigh, and he leaned in and kissed Jack all slow and gentle, both their mouths stale with sleep but the kiss not soured by that.

It was hardly worth resisting Sparrow -- they were in his bed, after all -- and anyway, resistance would only lay Jack open to further mockery: so he sighed, and smiled, and gave himself up to the kiss. Carpe diem, he thought, and wrapped his arm 'round Sparrow's sleek waist.

"Really, Mr Shaftoe," admonished Sparrow, smiling, "the way you carry on, anyone'd think I'd plundered and ravaged you 'gainst your will."

"You _did_!" protested Jack, and then -- in an rare moment of fair-mindedness -- was forced to add, "A bit."

Sparrow laughed out loud, and wound himself even closer to Jack, and kissed the hollow at the base of his throat. "I meant what I said, Jack," he insisted. "I'll not force you to anything ... contrary."

" _You're_ contrary," said Jack darkly; "you're the most contrary creature I've ever met." But he saw no reason to restrain himself from smiling back at the pirate; nor from reaching down between them and taking hold of that hot, twitching prick. So marvellously easy, it was, and so marvellously _effective_ : for Jack Sparrow, hissing with delight, was mirroring his actions, and his long fingers were wrapping around the heft of Jack's cock, matching Jack's slow, spiralling strokes.

"Oooh, Jack," he was saying, and "More o' that," and then, with exaggerated courtesy, "If it please you, of course," which made Jack laugh even as he licked and bit at the seductive angle where Sparrow's shoulder met his neck. Sparrow arched and stretched against him, humming his enjoyment, his hand moving faster on Jack's uncomplaining yard even as Jack -- determined, all at once, to watch Jack Sparrow spend for him before he gave it up himself -- stroked him harder.

Oh, this was addictive, this haze of bright morning sun and bright Jack Sparrow: it'd be easy to get accustomed to this. Dangerously easy, Jack told himself: horribly easy. But it was hard, so hard, to think that way when glorious Jack Sparrow was kissing him, thrusting into his hand, groaning -- Jack tilted his head back to watch, for he wanted to keep this moment in his mind -- and spilling hotly over Jack's right hand, biting that plump, swollen, crimson lip --

"Oh, _Jack_ ," said Jack Shaftoe, happily helpless, and let himself go.

* * *

It was a perfect morning: utterly, completely perfect. _Could've been even_ more _perfect_ , murmured something in the back of Jack Sparrow's brain; but he shushed it, for really, what was the point in rushing things? He'd had Jack Shaftoe, handsome eager _bold_ Jack Shaftoe, in his bed and his arms, in his hand, under his mouth: and Jack was supremely confident that he could coax and tease Shaftoe out of the shabby remnants of his _won't_ and _shan't_ and _that's disgusting_.

Though, oooh, the press of him against Jack's arse this morning: what a way to wake!

There'd be other mornings, or his name wasn't Captain Jack Sparrow.

"Captain?" said Bill Turner, approaching. If he was smirking (which he _was_ , Jack knew it) at his Captain's tardy appearance on deck, or at any signs of Mr Shaftoe's delightful ardour that might be obvious upon Jack's person, he concealed it well. "What's our course?"

Jack glanced up at the array of black sail above him, and the bright morning (all right, nearly nooning) sun; licked a finger (tasting, oooh, Jack Shaftoe) and held it to the air; and said, "South, Mr Turner. We're heading south."

Bill, used to his captain's idiosyncrasies, barely twitched at this supremely _obvious_ observation. "Aye, Captain, and so we've been all night. And all morning, too. But where're we bound, eh?"

"Excellent question," said Jack breezily. "So many little islands; so many charming places to visit. Though perhaps," he added, settling his tricorn more firmly on his head, "not Port Royal, not for a week or two, eh?"

Bootstrap laughed. "If there's aught left of it!" Then, leaning close, "Your Mr Shaftoe likes a bit of a blaze, eh?"

Jack, not bothering to contest Bill's use of the possessive (and warmed by the frisson it sent up and down his spine), agreed that this was so.

"Good afternoon, Captain," came a voice, and there was Enoch Root again, with a civil nod of his head and that infuriating half-smile lurking in his red beard. "How fares your patient today?"

"Very well, thank you, Enoch," said Jack smugly. "And I have to say, Enoch, that powder of yours is a fine thing, a very fine thing: where'd you find it?"

"The Chibcha have a great many intriguing remedies," said the alchemist, nodding in the general direction of vast, uncharted South American continent. "There'd be some profit in trade there."

"Ah, but it all depends on how those remedies _smell_ , eh?" retorted Jack. "For that last cargo that we took on your commendation, Enoch: well, they're still complaining of the stench, below."

"But you made a fine profit, did you not, Jack?" said Enoch, gently reproving. "Though I couldn't help but notice that there was some, shall we say, _natural wastage_."

"Necessity," said Jack expansively, "is the mother of invention. As for the father, I ain't telling. And anyway, Mr Root, 'tis all _your_ doing."

"How's that?"

"Well, 'twas you, was it not, who demonstrated to Mr Shaftoe the makings of Greek Fire?"

"The _principles_ of it, aye," said Enoch cautiously.

"And you, in fact, who _encouraged_ Mr Shaftoe to sail with the _Santa Ana_?"

"I suggested it, though --"

"So, evidently," said Jack, with a sharp gleaming grin, "we'd never have collected Mr Shaftoe from his little island if it hadn't been for you, Mr Root --"

"Now that's --"

"-- an' we wouldn't've had all that, that _bother_ ," Jack gestured expressively, "with randy Spaniards and their Special Friends -- friends, I should add, with some very nasty habits."

"Nor would you have known the recipe -- few _do_ know it, nowadays -- to free Jack Shaftoe," Enoch countered. "And truly, Jack, would you rather none of it had happened? Would you rather you'd never made the acquaintance of Mr Shaftoe?"

"I'd rather Mr Shaftoe were whole," said Jack, surprised by his own vehemence.

"Aye, and I'm sorry for ... Ah, Jack!" digressed Enoch. But he was looking, not at Jack himself, but over his shoulder. Jack, decoding this minor riddle, turned on his heel; Jack Shaftoe was emerging from the stairwell, and the mere sight of him was enough to make Jack smile again.

"How does the hand?" asked Enoch, and Shaftoe grimaced and waggled his swaddled appendage, and allowed that it was coming along.

"Captain Sparrow," said Enoch Root, with a gleam in his pale eye that made Jack wary, "was just bemoaning the recent events in Port Royal."

"Bloody Spaniards!" cried Shaftoe, thrusting his left arm forward for inspection in case the point'd been missed. "Worse than a play, it was, Enoch: mind you, I reckon that de Braxas bloke'd seen far too many tragedies, the way he carried on."

"De Braxas?" said Enoch, brows raised. "Don Alejandro de Braxas?"

"Aye," said Jack warily. "Friend of yours, Enoch?"

"Merely an acquaintance," said Enoch. "But his library is the finest in the Caribbean."

" _Was_ ," said Jack Shaftoe, grinning.

"I beg your pardon?"

" _Was_ the finest in the Caribbean, Enoch," explained Shaftoe, clearly immune to Jack's quelling glare. "All ashes now, unless that Greek concoction of yours leaves paper unscorched."

Enoch sighed heavily. "A considerable loss," he said, staring back over the stern to where Port Royal, no doubt, still smouldered beneath the horizon. "We are all still barbarians, it seems."

"Of course, there's the books Jack pocketed," offered Shaftoe helpfully.

Jack rolled his eyes heavenwards. The wind had come round a point and the tops'ls needed trimming, he noted: better send someone up to see to it.

"Anything of interest?" enquired Enoch politely.

"No, no, nothing really," Jack assured him. "Frivolous stuff, Mr Root: you wouldn't care for it. If you'll excuse me, gentlemen?" He stepped to the rail and beckoned Bootstrap over to convey his instructions vis-à-vis the finer points of rigging.

Bloody Jack Shaftoe! He'd never shown any interest in the books in Jack's cabin -- indeed, Jack suspected he was incapable of deciphering even their titles, let alone their various contents -- yet here he was, discussing literature with bloody Enoch Root. And laughing at something Root'd said: Jack could hear him. He turned, with the intention of bestowing a dark look 'pon them both.

But oh, oh, the guileless innocence on Jack Shaftoe's face! A face that Jack wanted to seize and kiss, aggravating as its owner might --

_Oh_ yes. Aggravating as its owner was _intending_ to be, from the sheer blithe perfection of his expression. Jack's eyes narrowed; and Shaftoe, turning from his business of disappointing Mr Root, winked.


	45. impofperversity | An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter Forty-Four

  


“You don’t have to play the hero over that hand of yours, Jack,” came a low voice behind him, and Jack Shaftoe peered round, quite prepared to argue that he was doing no such thing, that his hand wasn’t bothering him in the least, and if he hadn’t managed to eat much in the way of lunch, well, that was a matter to be taken up with that wretched excuse for a cook, rather than his apparently intended victims. But as it transpired there was no call to bother, for his interlocutor was none other than his long-standing acquaintance Enoch Root; and who better to confess his thumping, queasy discomfort to, than a man with a pocketful of potions that might allay it in all manner of delightful ways?

So, “It’s a trifle uncomfortable, I confess,” he said. “Got anything as’ll reverse the situation?”

“By all means,” said Enoch smoothly. “Care to come below, and I’ll see what I can find?” He held a hand down to Jack, who’d been taking a moment’s rest (well, a couple of hours’ rest, to be more accurate) in the sunshine down in the waist, sheltered from the breeze; a delightful spot. Delightful not least because it was one from which he happened to have a rather excellent view, from beneath half-closed eyelids, of this vessel’s captain; a man who, in his every aspect—his glinting exterior, his odd sway, his flying, expressive hands, his sudden fiery smiles—seemed to draw Jack’s helpless gaze as though he were some mindlessly photophiliac insect blundering desperately towards a flame; and Jack wasn’t entirely sure of the degree to which this might be an apt analogy.

He took Enoch’s proffered hand, and suffered himself to be hauled upright; truth be told, he did appreciate the help. His left hand was burning and throbby, his entire arm felt heavy, and the slightest knock to the limb sent jarringly unpleasant shocks of pain shooting around and about.

From the top of the companionway he glanced up at the quarterdeck, and paused there as he saw Jack Sparrow’s face turned t’ward him; and though the pirate’s eyes were shadowed by the rakish tilt of his tricorne, the sentiment behind his wide, slow-blossoming grin could not be mistaken.

“Off for a nap, are we, Mr Shaftoe?” Sparrow called, into the wind. “I do hope I didn’t keep you up too late.”

Jack could see the smirk on Cooper’s face, standing at Sparrow’s elbow, from here, and he didn’t appreciate it overly much. But rather than enter into some badinage in front of ‘em all, he merely cupped a hand to his ear, in the manner of Don Esteban, and shouted, “Pardon?”, following it with a flashed grin and a wink before stumbling down into the belowdecks darkness after Enoch.

*

The cabin which Enoch was sharing with Bill Turner was smaller than Sparrow’s, in fact it made Sparrow’s quarters look positively indulgent by comparison. Jack considered it rather high-minded of Turner to’ve agreed to share at all, given such a very little space. And once a hammock was slung, it would be even more cramped… a thought which immediately gave rise to a consideration of how much bigger Sparrow’s cabin had been this morning, without any nasty confection of rope and canvas dangling across it. And what, pray, would happen there tonight? Jack had very little idea of what he might, or might not’ve, committed himself to. Was he welcome, now, in Sparrow’s bed? Was he (horrors) _expected_ there? And what did he _want_ to be the case?

Luckily, at this point, Enoch began to distract him with evidence of Drugs, extracting a battered brass-bound box from under Turner’s cot.

“I suppose laudanum would do it,” suggested Jack, in the tone of one who was disappointed by this idea, but would accept the compromise.

Enoch, annoyingly, laughed. “Oh, Jack, I think I know you too well to recommend that course of action.”

“I’m not sure what you’re implying, but I’m fairly sure it’s uncomplimentary,” said Jack.

“I’m suggesting,” the alchemist told him with a raised eyebrow, “that you’re not a man who’s adept at self-denial; and laudanum can become rather habitual, you know.”

“Mmmm,” Jack agreed, with a wistful smile.

“This, on the other hand—here, put your arm up here, I’ll need to re-bandage it—will manage your pain, with very little in the way of additional side-effects.”

“Oh, very well,” said Jack resignedly, propping his arm rather gingerly on the table, and ferreting around in Enoch’s box with his other hand, tipping over bottles, and poking at odd little packets and boxes. “What else’ve you got in here then? Anything that _does_ provide additional side-effects?”

“Any number of them,” said Enoch; he looked at Jack, eyes narrowed for a moment as if considering something. Jack gave him a look of query in return, but Enoch shook his head and muttered, "No," closing the box rather firmly on Jack’s fingers, and turning his attention back to Jack’s wound. It had scabbed over cleanly, though the stump was swollen and red; Enoch prodded it, causing Jack to make a strangled keening noise in the back of his throat, and then leant down and sniffed it.

“All seems well,” he pronounced, and proceeded to coat the remaining joint of Jack’s finger with a black and bitter-smelling paste before re-wrapping it. He was no less careful than Sparrow, but apparently a deal more practised; this bandage left Jack’s unhurt fingers free, though it bound the stump closely to his ring finger, supporting it and protecting it. The paste was warm, but a certain numbness was returning, and Jack felt much better for the absence of that sharp, nauseating throb.

“You’ve picked up some excellent things on your meanderings, I’ll give you that,” he told Enoch.

“As have you, apparently,” said Enoch with an innocent expression, and Jack suffered a sudden flush throughout much of his body at the insinuation.

“What d’you mean by that?” he asked, a little stiffly, playing ignorant just in case.

“”Tis quite clear to me, though I confess surprising, that you’ve become rather attached to young Jack Sparrow.”

“He’s not as bad as I thought he might be, at first,” Jack admitted, cagily. “How d’you know him, then?”

“Oh, I knew his father, a long time ago.”

“His father? And what was he, may I ask?”

Enoch smiled, his eyes taking on a faraway cast. “Ah, an interesting fellow. A great wanderer, like yourself; young Jack never saw enough of him, and he disappeared when Jack was a mere child. An adventurer.”

“A rogue, eh?”

“Not so much as his offspring, I don’t believe. Still, you’ve never objected to that in a man, have you, Jack?”

“’Tis not _that_ I object to,” muttered Jack, wondering whether he wanted to get into this conversation or not.

“Mmmm,” Enoch said, noncommittally. “I did always pick you as a man with an eye for the ladies, I admit.”

“I am!” Jack protested. “He’s just… interesting.” The word seemed insignificant in the face of the sugary burn that coursed through him at the thought of Jack Sparrow curving naked against him, black eyes intense, callused hand moving sure and oh-so-sweet on Jack’s yard; and yet, yet, it seemed too much to admit to another human being. “Not _that_ interesting,” he proclaimed, and essayed a laugh at the ridiculousness of the idea. “I’m no sodomite, me.”

“Talking of which,” said Enoch, mercifully not arguing the point (though Jack could tell that for a moment he’d been considering it) “I must apologise for putting you in the way of Esteban de Espinosa; I thought him quite… attached to de Braxas, Jack. I’d no idea that he would bother you so.”

“Oh, so you knew he was that sort, and you advised me onto his ship regardless!” said Jack, seeing a rare opportunity to practice High Dudgeon.

“Come, Jack, everyone knew. That library we mentioned before, what d’you imagine it contained?”

“Is this a trick question, or d’you really want me to guess _books_?”

“What _type_ of book, Jack; although it did include, I believe, a rather impressive selection of ancient writings, it was famed, chiefly, for its collection of erotica.”

“Pictures?” said Jack, suddenly dismayed at the idea of having burnt it all.

“Oh, some of it, but mostly writings—“

“Oh.”

“—which shouldn’t, Mr Shaftoe, be dismissed simply because _you’re_ not able to enjoy them directly. Much of it is hard to come by, and even educational; the type of information not generally available to the reading public.”

“Ah, but I can imagine what de Braxas might’ve selected, Enoch; probably not up my alley at all, as it were.”

“Perhaps,” said Enoch, mildly. “I confess to a powerful curiosity as to which volumes Captain Sparrow selected to rescue.”

Jack was on the verge of volunteering a visit to Sparrow’s cabin for Research Purposes, when there was a brief knock on the door, and Sparrow himself peered in. Jack restrained the urge to smile at him, for fear of Enoch’s mockery, but oh, it was hard; he’d not seen him for half an hour, now, and he missed it. Somehow even that short time had been sufficient to dull the memory of just how wickedly lovely that face was, and it hit him anew, a delicious surge of recognition and desire. But Sparrow, perhaps taking his cue from the neutrality of Jack’s expression, merely glanced down at his swaddled hand, and asked, “All sorted, gentlemen?”

“Quite,” said Enoch. “It should keep him comfortable for some while.”

“Oh good, good. Listen, Bill and I and some of the lads were just discussing our preferred destination, and Jack, I seemed to recall that you had that map from Espinosa; shall we take a look at it?”

“By all means,” said Jack politely.

“Excellent; in my cabin in five minutes, then?”

“Certainly.” Sparrow ducked back out, and Jack buried the wish that it had been himself alone that Sparrow had requested.

*

By the time Jack entered, Bill in tow, Shaftoe and Root had spread the map out upon his table, and dragged in another chair from someone else’s quarters. Shaftoe was sitting on Jack’s sea-chest.

“Go on Bill, you take that chair,” said Jack magnanimously. “I’ll fit on here. Shift up, Mr Shaftoe.” And he waved Shaftoe along to one corner of the chest, perching himself on the other. “So, what have we here? Ralegh’s, our friend reckoned; your thoughts, Enoch? I must say, it looks more than a little familiar to me.” He leant closer; the ink upon the map was faded, the parchment thick and sun-darkened, so it was not by any means clear, or easy to read. Islands were scattered like indistinct rat-droppings across a sea embellished with all manner of monsters; it was a creative piece of work, he had to give it that.

“Looks like nonsense to me,” said Shaftoe, before Root had a chance to speak. “I mean, how can you take a map seriously when it’s got a picture like _that_ on it?” and he tapped disparagingly on a large, one eyed, many tentacled creature with a parrot’s beak edged with daggery teeth.

“Oh, no, I’ve seen _them_ ,” said Jack. “But I think he made up _that_ one.” He pointed to another creature, selected chiefly because it allowed him to lay his arm alongside Jack Shaftoe’s; Shaftoe’s shirtsleeve was rolled up to his elbow, and the heat of his skin shot right through Jack’s shirt, his flesh, into his bones. Their wrists touched, skin to skin, and it seemed to make every hair on Jack’s arm stand on end, electrified.

“No, really, Jack, you’ve never seen a mermaid?” Shaftoe was saying, witheringly. But he did not move his hand.

“Not yet… anyway, is there any sign of where this little archipelago might _be_? Near St Lucia, is the only rumour I’ve heard, but I must say I can’t see any Distinguishing Features that might narrow the scope a little.”

“Let me have a closer look,” said Bill, and he pulled the map out from under them, over to his corner of the table. Jack looked across to Enoch, and found himself watched.

“I agree with you,” said Enoch. “I find it familiar, also. Very familiar; if it was not once your father’s map, Jack, it’s a fine facsimile.”

“My thoughts, I fear, exactly,” said Jack; and a little chill shivered through him.


	46. An Alchemical Prescription,  45

  
  
"You _fear_?" said Jack Shaftoe: it sounded like an accusation, and he was sorry for it, but something in the rare stillness of Sparrow's face, some shadow in his dark eyes, discomfited Jack, and he saw no reason to keep his unease to himself. "It's only a map. What's to fear from a map?"

Bootstrap was looking at him as though he'd committed the heresy of questioning Jack Sparrow's personal courage and fortitude, which was not what he'd meant at all: but Enoch stilled Bill Turner with a look, and said, "'Tis a long story, Jack, and one that Captain Sparrow may prefer to recount himself."

"Aye," said Sparrow, visibly setting aside whatever thought or memory had assailed him. "I'll tell you the whole tale one day, Mr Shaftoe, though I phant'sy it'd go better with a cup or two of rum to ... to lubricate it. Nasty cough you have there, Enoch: best dose yourself up, eh? In brief, though, the tale goes thus: that my father had a map like this one -- _very_ like it, in truth -- that was given to him by _his_ father, who sailed with Ralegh in Queen Bess's day."

"Indeed, he was Ralegh's cartographer, was he not, Captain?" said Enoch.

Jack knew that Enoch Root never said anything without a reason, and after a moment he came to it.

"So this map's yours by right, then?" he said. "Drawn up by your gaffer, and handed down father to son?"

Sparrow cocked his head and looked at Jack thoughtfully. "Perhaps," he said.

"Then how did that ... how did Don Esteban come by it?" said Jack: then, remembering, "I was right, eh? Filthy Spanish thief, I called him." And he grinned at Jack Sparrow, and grinned wider when Sparrow smiled back at him.

"Be that as it may," said Bootstrap (rather impatiently, Jack thought), "we have the map now: an' the only question is, can we make use of it?"

The parchment was between Bill's hands, and from this angle Jack could hardly make out the shapes of individual islands, let alone those unnecessarily Barock embellishments -- mermaids and monsters, an elaborate compass rose, and a veritable fleet of old-fashioned vessels in full sail -- that adorned it. But he was sure he could see something, down there near the lower margin.

"May I?" he said, tugging at the parchment. Bootstrap let it slide across the table, and Jack squinted, and tilted it, until he was certain of what he'd seen.

"What is it, Mr Shaftoe?" said Sparrow, leaning close. Jack could _smell_ him, and did not stop to wonder why this was a pleasing, rather than distasteful, phenomenon. He suppressed the urge to lean against Sparrow's shoulder; but could not resist shoving his knee, under the table where no one else would notice, against Sparrow's own. The answering pressure sent a shiver all up and down his spine, and made him think of that evening -- not a week ago, but yet whole aeons away -- when he'd sat in this very cabin, trembling with mirth as Sparrow tormented Don Esteban.

"Jack?" said Sparrow, closer still. "Really, Enoch: _must_ you medicate your patients quite so lavishly? I swear Mr Shaftoe's in --"

"Nay, 'twas but a momentary ... moment," Jack managed. Sparrow's proximity was terribly distracting, and he did not care to think of what Bootstrap and Enoch might imagine they could see in his vacant expression. He mustered his thoughts. "Look, Jack: this map shows much besides what's penned on it."

"P'rhaps you've taken a fever, Mr Shaftoe," said Sparrow; and he turned towards Jack, and laid a warm hand on his brow.

Jack shivered at the touch, and knew that Enoch, at least, had noticed. He kicked Sparrow (though not very hard), and said clearly, "Your _greasy_ Spaniard's left his mark -- the mark of where _he_ thought the treasure was, at least." And he pointed, careful not to touch, to the smeary finger-marks that clustered around a little knot of islands just east of St Lucia.

"I assure you, Don Esteban was in no way _mine_ ," said Sparrow abstractedly; but he was peering at the map, holding it so that the late afternoon light shone full on the blurred, stained chart.

"Well?" said Bill, leaning toward his captain. "What d'you reckon, Jack?"

"'Tis where Don Esteban told us he was headed," said Sparrow. "Mr Shaftoe, did he indicate, in word or deed, where the _Santa Ana_ was bound?"

"Not to me," said Jack, "but then I wasn't much in his company, Captain, as you know." Sparrow's leg pressed against him again, secretly, and Jack fought back a smile. "We were headed east by south, though, and such a course would have delivered us to that vicinity."

"It's not a region I'm familiar with," said Sparrow. "Enoch? Bill?"

The other men shook their heads: though Enoch offered, "I've heard stories, all up and down the Lesser Antilles, of Spanish visitations in the olden days."

"Then, gentlemen, let's see for ourselves," said Sparrow, spreading his hand (his hot, strong hand: it drew Jack's gaze) over that quarter of the map. "Mr Turner, would you be so kind as to assemble the company? We'll recount our conclusions, and ask their opinion on the matter: though if any man has a better notion for our next venture, I'll be mightily surprised."

"But you're the _captain_!" said Jack, scandalised by this unseemly spectre of democracy.

"Aye, Mr Shaftoe, but only by the will of the majority," explained Sparrow, with a sly sideways look at Jack.

Jack could not resist that look; could not, it seemed, resist Jack Sparrow at all, today, a thought which should've alarmed him more than it did. But Bootstrap was already at the door, holding it open for his captain.

"With you in a moment, mate," said Jack Sparrow, nodding to Bootstrap. Under the table, his leg was still stretched, warm and strong, against Jack's.

Enoch -- his glance flickering between the two of them in a way that made Jack's face heat -- stood, stooping a little under the low beams, and nodded to them both. "Later, Captain; Mr Shaftoe," he excused himself, and he picked up his chair and followed Bootstrap out.

"Well," said Jack.

* * *

His crew would be gathering already, up on deck, but Jack Sparrow did not want to face them yet. Shaftoe, with his headily contradictory signals -- each one of which sent a frisson of delighted contrariness through Jack's veins -- was of more immediate interest. And Shaftoe, sitting close enough for Jack to feel the rhythm of his breath and every fidgety twitch of his leg, did not seem to have the slightest objection to Jack's presence any more. He was nearer than he'd been a moment ago: any closer, in fact, and he'd be in Jack's lap.

Jack fought down that imagin'd sensation. "How's the hand?" he enquired, reaching over and taking gentle hold of Shaftoe's left wrist where it rested on his thigh. The back of the wounded hand was pale and bruised-looking, and it felt warm to Jack's touch, but there were no telltale red threads of infection.

Shaftoe trembled, but he did not pull away. "Sore," he said at last, rather hoarsely.

"I'm sorry for't," said Jack. "P'rhaps -- later on -- I might have a try at taking your mind off it, eh?"

Shaftoe's broad, keen smile was almost enough to drive rational thought from Jack's mind. It sparked in him a tremendous desire, never mind the gathering crew and the captainly matters that called, to keep the crew waiting: to pull Shaftoe carefully closer and set himself to driving out any lingering aches and throbs that might beset his corpus.

"That'd be nice," said Jack Shaftoe, flushing slightly but not flinching from Jack's -- surely lecherous -- gaze.

"Well, mate, I've business on deck any moment," Jack said. He was distantly amazed to find himself so nearly _apologising_ for it: but there were more immediate concerns, like Jack Shaftoe's warm, mutilated hand in Jack's own. Like, oh, Shaftoe's other hand, slipping round the curve of Jack's waist to hold him near: marv'lously bold of him, considering.

Jack smiled back at Shaftoe, the most alluring smile (or so he hoped) of his wide and varied repertoire. He raised his hand, still gentle, and dipped his head: and quickly and neatly sucked the tip of Shaftoe's middle finger between his lips.

Shaftoe gave a strangled gasping cry, and shivered and swore, and said Jack's name. A tremor went through him: Jack could feel it everywhere that their bodies touched. From this angle, head bent to Shaftoe's hand, he had a delightful view of Shaftoe's groin, and he was ridiculously pleased to see that his action'd produced an immediate and obvious _re_ action: there was a flattering convexity in Shaftoe's breeches, and Jack ached to set his lips to _that_.

But above their heads the planks resounded with the noise of three score men, mostly barefooted, converging on the waist of the ship to hear their captain's plans and pronouncements and proposals. No point in keeping 'em waiting: _every_ point in whetting Jack Shaftoe's appetite. Jack, with a moue of regret, released Shaftoe's fingertip, and resisted Shaftoe's efforts to pull him in for a kiss.

"Later," he promised, sliding out from under the table -- it felt cold, to move away from Jack Shaftoe -- and surreptitiously adjusting himself in his own breeches.

Shaftoe grinned to see this evidence of Jack's own interest. He held up his left hand, finger still gleaming wet from the warmth of Jack's mouth, and touched it to his own mouth in a gesture of such fabulous harlotry that Jack could only stare, and store away the image like a talisman against whatever trials life might have in store for him today, tomorrow, next year.

"Hope you won't mind if I don't return the favour," said Shaftoe: then, at Jack's enquiring look, "I know where your fingers've _been_ , mate."

"Just the one, Mr Shaftoe," said Jack cheerfully. "In fact, 'twas --"

"Pray spare me the details! No doubt it's one of those _foreign depravities_ you read of, in those books you nicked."

"There's book-learning, Jack, an' there's _true_ learning," said Jack Sparrow, turning his attention to the less provocative business of map-furling. "And I have to say I prefer the kind that's rooted in _experience_ ; though," he brandished the rolled map, "I take my knowledge where I find it."

Shaftoe snorted.

"Hadn't thought you the literary type, either," probed Jack.

"Old Enoch reckons that de Braxas's library was packed full of, of erotica," said Shaftoe, flushing.

"Aha, and you're after some bedtime reading, is that it?"

"Can't read," said Shaftoe blithely, not looking particularly embarrassed by the admission.

"Best find someone to read to you, then," said Jack slyly.

"At bedtime?" Shaftoe glanced at the cot in a way that, to Jack's eager eye, seemed at once greedy and trepidatious.

"Well, Jack, you don't have to sleep in here if you'd sooner not," said Jack's mouth, despite his efforts to keep it closed. "I'm very much afraid, though," he rallied, "that there ain't a single free cabin, just now."

"Oh, I don't mind staying -- sleeping -- here," said Shaftoe with sweet, clumsy haste: then, plain as day, he recognised the gracelessness of his words, and burst out laughing. Jack could not help laughing too, for a variety of reasons. Oh, but Shaftoe's laughter was a glorious bright thing, and it lit up every corner of the gloomy cabin; and lit up Jack's heart too, and made him want to lay Jack Shaftoe down and lavish wonders upon him.

Later, Jack promised himself: and, aloud, said, "The company's waiting, Jack: let's go up."


	47. impofperversity | An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter Forty-Six

  


Jack did not much care for some of the grinning glances which were aimed his way as he emerged from the companionway behind the Captain; and when Sparrow pushed forward, and stepped up onto a closed hatch in front of the crowd, Jack hung back, watching him from behind the company. His blood was still thumping from Sparrow’s promised _later_ ; from the delicious burn of the man’s hot tongue against Jack’s finger; from the sensation of Sparrow’s hard waist beneath his hand. Safe, it’d seemed, to put his arm about him, knowing that he was awaited up on deck; though he’d thought, for one odd swirly moment, that the pirate was about to leave his company standing, and engage in wickedly delicious acts with Jack instead. Which made it very _un_ safe indeed; but oh, how temptingly so. It was a strange tightrope that Jack was walking, a narrow line between his desires and his disinclinations, and the line was wavering, moving beneath his feet; he felt an unaccustomed vertigo, and yet, the sweetest pull t’ward falling.

The sun was lowering down to the horizon, and slanting warm across Jack Sparrow as he stood before his men, bringing glints of gold and copper to his hair, not all of them from the metal charms which hung about him. In one hand he held the folded map, and he waved it about, signalling them to quiet.

“Well, boys,” he cried, “as is my wont, I’ve got a bit of a _proposal_ to put to you.”

“As long as it don’t poison our air, it’ll be an improvement on the last one!” shouted someone, and Sparrow called right back, “You can take that up with Enoch, over there,” waving his arm in the alchemist’s direction. “But no, I ‘sure you, this one ain’t going to poison no-one. Let me tell you a little story, eh?”

Several of ‘em, up the front, promptly sat down as though settling in for a long one; there was general laughter, and Jack smiled to think of all the stories that Jack Sparrow might’ve spun his men. He leant back against the wall of the quarterdeck, tall enough to see over the heads of most of those before him.

“When I was nothing but a nipper,” said Jack Sparrow, “my papa was what you might call a bit of a wanderer. And he had that from _his_ father, who’d sailed the seas with none other than Walter Ralegh, drawing up his maps for him; ‘tis in the Sparrow blood to explore, you know how ‘tis, I’m sure; some men just ain’t made for sitting at home, tied to apron strings, are we now?”

He said this last with a wide grin at Bill Turner, who shook his head and rolled his eyes, and Jack recalled someone saying that old Bill had himself a perfectly lovely wife, and even a kiddy, back home, but here he was all the same, sailing about causing havoc with mad flighty Jack Sparrow. Jack could see how that could become a bit of a habit.

“So, off my old man went one fine day, with one of his pater’s maps tucked under his arm and a fine tale of how he’d be back in no time with all sorts of wondrous notions, not least among ‘em a fat cache of gold. And that, gents…” he paused, and looked up at the sun; “… that was the last we saw of him, and his map; and though we heard many a tale of his demise, nothing was certain, save that I was fatherless, from that day on.” He dropped his eyes, and took off his hat, holding it to his chest, and Jack fought an urge to laugh at this shameless piece of showmanship, but (apart from more head-shaking from Turner) there wasn’t a peep out of his captivated audience.

“But…” said Sparrow, low and sudden, and his head shot up, and he gestured, with his hat, in Jack’s direction; every head turned, and Jack froze like a rabbit caught in torchlight. “Not four days since, this gentleman here, Mr Jack Shaftoe, found us a true prize, my friends. For the map that he took from that Spanish captain—the map that _he paid for with his finger_ —was none other than the map my grandfather drew up for Ralegh. None other than the map that took my father from me. The map that was stolen from him, by the late and quite utterly unlamented Alejandro de Braxas!”

This last bit was a piece of wild conjecture if Jack’d ever heard one, and more likely a flat-out lie; but he had to admit that it made a fine tale, all nicely tied together and thoroughly stirring, full of revenge and betrayal. So he scowled his agreement, and tried to look vengeful and fierce instead of lust-filled and preoccupied. The men of the company muttered to themselves and looked from Sparrow to Jack and back again.

“And now!” cried Sparrow, “ _Now_ , Mr Shaftoe has directed us to that quarter of the map for which the Spaniards were bound; now, we have a chance to find for ourselves that treasure for which my father gave his life. And is that not, I ask you, a fine adventure to embark upon?”

There was a general chorus of _Aye!_ s and cheering; till one voice demanded over the top of it, “Wot d’you mean, Jack, the _quarter of the map_? Don’t you know where ezackly we’re s’posed to make for, then?”

Sparrow squinted coldly at the speaker, a short and wiry older fellow whom Jack didn’t know by name, and the men fell silent, watching him for his answer. He unfurled the map, and held it aloft; pointed to the isle for which they were headed. “’Tis here we’re bound,” he said, “and we know it to be correct, for there are marks upon the map that say so.”

Jack noted that this was a rather vague contention, but, as an unlettered man, it was fairly typical of the level of explication that came his way when he disputed the claims of a more educated fellow. Marks, letters… much the same, really.

“Are we together, then, on this quest?” demanded the Captain, and all but one or two of his crew threw a hand in the air and cried “Aye!”; and that seemed to be that. “You heard the men, Mr Turner, and you know the heading!” Sparrow cried. “Full sail, an’ we’ll be there in two days, if this wind holds!”

And he looked across to Jack with an expression that spoke wicked volumes and said, quieter, as the men began to disperse: “Two days’ sweet sailing, lads.”

*

The evening had been long, and frustrating, and full of apparent traps and way-layings; and Jack Sparrow wouldn’t put it past more than one of his crew to’ve been doing it a’purpose, to’ve been deliberately finding things that required his attention or consideration or mediation, and to’ve been enjoying the fact that he was being kept from the warm side of Jack Shaftoe for long hour upon long hour.

It seemed that he’d known, though, every minute, where Shaftoe might be; as if he were some sweet floating compass needle and Shaftoe a strong magnetic north, he was constantly aware of the silhouette of the man in his peripheral vision, or the low cadence of his voice up in the bow with Root, or the sudden raucous burst of his laughter; and how hard it was, how very hard, not to simply walk away from whoever was currently importuning him, and go to search for the source of those things, and put a hand upon his arm, (surely the most that Jack Shaftoe would accept from him, in public and all); or maybe lean close, and smell the warmth and sweat of him; or maybe stand so near that shoulders touched, and he’d feel that tremble through Jack Shaftoe again, just as when they’d sat, side by side, on his sea-chest.

He could hear it now, again; Shaftoe’s _Ah, Christ Jesus, Jack_ as Jack’d taken his finger between his lips; the tremor in his voice, in his hand, and Jack was hard again at the thought of it.

Dark had set in; and Jack-the-compass knew that Shaftoe was down below. Maybe, having supper; maybe, with Enoch Root; or maybe, just maybe…

Ah, that was it, he could take no more; he raised a hand to interrupt Stone’s monologue of imagined incipient disasters, made his firm apologies, turned over the helm to the fellow, and advised him to hold course till morning.

Down he went, down to the galley, and found himself a bowl of tepid stew and some hardened bread; popped a head round the mess door and saw no Shaftoe eating down below. Which probably meant…

It was pitchy dark down here, but Jack needed no light to navigate his way. He came up to his cabin door, quiet and careful, seeing it ajar; seeing a flickery light inside. Peering through, and seeing (ah, joy!) Jack Shaftoe sitting beside the table, chin propped on the heel of his bandaged hand, a book (mysteriously) open in front of him; he was not looking at it, but staring unfocussed at Jack’s cot.

Jack paused, and stood, and watched, and savoured; the halo’d strands of straw-yellow hair, the strong profile, the slow blink of long lashes. Smiled again at the thought of the way Shaftoe’d been watching him, this afternoon; the way he’d flushed whenever Jack looked his way; the way he’d wrapped his arm around Jack’s waist, as they sat together before. Oh, was this not the very sweetest moment of a new conquest; when it was all fresh, and bright, and deliciously half-known, familiar enough already to stir the memory and imagination so brightly, and yet _un_ familiar enough that it was still edged with risk and mystery and wonder… and Jack was half-tempted to remain where he was, merely watching and suffering the cruel delight of anticipation, until Shaftoe, not looking up, said, “Are you coming in, then, or just standing there?”

“Oh, I was just, you know… thinking about it,” declared Jack, unable to wipe the smile from his face as he pushed the door open, and then shut it firmly behind himself.

“What have you, there?” asked Shaftoe, seeing Jack’s burdens.

“Supper; have you eaten?”

“If you can call it that,” said Shaftoe dismissively. “But don’t let me stop you.” But he looked at Jack with such frank interest as he said it that it would’ve stopped Jack from almost anything. He put the bowl hurriedly down on the table; took off his hat, his coat, his weapons, till he wore only shirt and breeches, as did Shaftoe; and then he gave in to his urges, and stepped across Shaftoe’s outstretched legs, and sat upon his thighs, face to face.

Shaftoe made an irresistible gasping noise, and yet Jack managed to resist it; he leant on Shaftoe’s shoulders, his hands playing with strands of Shaftoe’s hair. Face close, so close; not touching him.

“What’re you reading, then?” he murmured.

“Haven’t any idea,” said Shaftoe, and his tongue darted out over his lip, and Jack felt his own lip curl in delight at that.

“Why’re you reading it, then, or not, as the case may be?”

“I was led to believe that it might be… illustrated.”

“Oh ho, do we like pictures, do we?”

“Like _looking_ ,” said Shaftoe frankly, and he looked very hard at Jack, and slowly (mmm, very slowly) let his gaze drop down, down Jack’s throat, his chest, down to the junction of his thighs; and Jack’s gaze followed suit, and everything he saw was good. He swallowed, and his head buzzed with all the different things he wanted to say, to do, to Jack Shaftoe.

“I like looking, too,” he said, low; “Like looking at you, Jack, for you’re—no, don’t argue it!—you’re a lovely sight. But for all that, I want to touch you, more.”

Shaftoe’s hands were there behind him, there on his arse, pulling him forward, and Jack wriggled, just a little, against them, and did nothing else but smile, till Shaftoe said, “Go on, then.”

“What?” And Shaftoe glared a little but laughed a little too and Jack, seeing the sharpness of his teeth and that gently crooked incisor and the dimple that came to his cheek lost all his ability to tease further; lost it, and bent down and kissed Jack Shaftoe’s open mouth, kissed him and bit him and tasted him and oh, god, wanted him beyond bearing.


	48. An Alchemical Prescription,  47

  
  
All afternoon, ever since Sparrow had sucked Jack's finger into _inside_ his mouth, Jack had been aching. He'd felt Jack Sparrow's constant presence -- never close enough, but never very far -- like the ghost-presence of his severed finger. That was a dull red throb along the edge of his palm, the occasional flare of knitting muscle or blossoming flesh, and a peculiar, transitory prickling that wandered all up and down his left arm. Jack had been wounded before, and got over it, and this was merely a more extreme rendition of the usual recovery process. The way he wanted Jack Sparrow (or, perhaps, wanted something _from_ him) was worlds away from that: it had to do with a heaviness in his yard that never quite went away, and the way Jack Sparrow drew his eyes, his attention, his very flesh. O, it was a drastically different ache altogether, but he could no more ignore it than he could forget the niggling itch of his half-healed hand.

He had stayed out of Sparrow's orbit above decks, not desirous of more snide sidelong looks from various of the crew who'd taken it upon themselves, it seemed, to leap to inaccurate and unreasonable conclusions concerning Mr Jack Shaftoe and his role in their captain's affairs. "Filthy-minded buggers," muttered Jack. _He_ had never been so unjust: what call had they to pass judgement? After all, it wasn't as though anything had actually happened -- anything of significance to anyone else, at least: Jack's whole corpus still tingled from the remembered heat of Sparrow's mouth -- while the two of them were alone in the cabin.

Which lack of incident had brought him here again alone to wait for Jack Sparrow. Because, no matter how long habit prompted him to deny everything, it was bootless to pretend that he did not want more. Though what that 'more' might be, Jack couldn't yet say.

To this end he had been engaged upon Research, and had taken down one of Jack Sparrow's more tattered books in the hope of advancing his understanding. The worn kidskin cover, all gilt-stamped and sea-stained, showed signs of frequent consultation; but it turned out to be useless to Jack, consisting solely of _words_ in an elaborate typeface that reminded Jack of legal documents to which he had occasionally been exposed. Only innate stubbornness (and a need to take his mind off that rumpled cot, and the shadowy and intriguing events which might later occur in its vicinity) kept him turning the book's dog-eared pages. He'd have to ask Sparrow to read it to him: and that annoyed Jack, for it gave Sparrow an unfair advantage.

" _Another_ advantage," murmured Jack to the empty cabin: for Sparrow was in the (to Jack) enviable position of knowing what he wanted. O, there was more all right, and Jack'd asked -- nay, _begged_ \-- for it; and even now, having experienced some of Jack Sparrow's expositions at intimately close range, Jack was not entirely convinced that there were not other, more appealing aspects to the whole business of sodomy.

He tried to imagine himself doing to Sparrow as Sparrow'd done to him: tried to imagine himself doing something _more_ , or perhaps just _different_ , simply by variations (Christ, he'd spent too long with Enoch) of methodology. Oh, the possibilities were endless.

And it wasn't as though Jack were in any way altered by his recent experiments; he'd satisfied himself of that earlier. Cooper and Burton had been working together on some carpentry project beyond Jack's ken. Jack had watched the two of them together (pretending all the while to be intent on Stone's dice-game) and felt not a single lecherous twitch, for all that Burton was a well-knit lad, and Cooper near as lithe and dark and sinewy as Captain Sparrow. In fact, according to Jack's admittedly hasty survey, there was not a single fellow of the _Black Pearl_ 's company with whom Jack Shaftoe would countenance an embrace, let alone anything else.

But Jack Sparrow! Sparrow, whose approach Jack could _feel_ as much as hear, as though the other man carried a beacon bright enough to shine through solid wood; whose silent presence just without the door set every atom in Jack's body leaping and frisking with anticipation; whose breath, nigh inaudible over the suspirance of wood and water, Jack wanted to feel close and gusty on his skin.

Anticipation, stretched on a rack, became excitement: and racked again, turned to impatience, though of a gleeful (because confident) kind. Jack could bear the tension no longer, though it lay between him and his own ignorance. "Are you coming in, then," he enquired, "or just standing there?"

Jack Sparrow had brought his supper with him, but he showed no especial desire to sit and eat it. No: all his desire was focussed upon Jack, and Jack felt himself blessed and special for it. For he'd longed for this; for, oh, Sparrow's weight on him, and the chance to look at him properly -- not the quick flickering glances they'd exchanged all afternoon, but a long, slow, appreciative look, taking in every inch (and every _increase_ ) of Sparrow's body -- and to set his hands on Jack Sparrow and pull him closer, kiss him and taste him and groan at his answering touch.

All so very delightful and easy and beguiling, but Jack's mind -- or perhaps, perversely, his Impish familiar -- presented him, of a sudden, with a vision of a primrose path of baby-steps that led, with remarkable haste and no possibility whatsoever of turning back, to ... to ...

He stilled under the oddly tender kiss, though his hands still pressed, through the thin cloth of Sparrow's breeches, against hot skin.

"What's on your mind?" murmured Jack Sparrow against his mouth, and leaned his forehead against Jack's, so that his dark eye filled Jack's field of view.

"Where's this going, Jack? Where --"

* * *

Jack Sparrow applauded Shaftoe's curiosity, and would, if Shaftoe'd sought counsel, have directed him to the shelf of books _behind_ the cot, rather than the well-thumbed texts on navigation and seamanship. He certainly had no intention of mocking Shaftoe's illiteracy, or pointing out the dearth of lechery in his chosen reference work (Hakluyt's _Voyages_ , volume fifteen). But that sheer expanse of gleaming blank ignorance, vis-à-vis the erotic possibilities between two men, called siren-seductive to Jack Sparrow, and fascinated him as nothing else had done for years.

Shaftoe, even as his caresses slowed and stopped, did not seem actively _averse_ to the process of discovery. Jack was brimming with want, and he would willingly have given Shaftoe anything, everything, that he desired, just as long as he knew enough to ask it. Indeed, Jack was ready to teach him any term he did not know, with copious examples and illustrations and the like: whatever it took, to have Jack Shaftoe naked and flinchless in his arms.

But Shaftoe's question demanded more thought, and more cleverness: and, of course, more guile, lest the moment be lost. Jack let himself slide from Shaftoe's lap, though inwardly he bewailed the loss -- nay, let's say interruption -- of Shaftoe's broad hands and their warm, curious explorations. He ducked down to where his coat had fallen, and plucked out the furled map.

Jack Shaftoe grinned, and sat back, and rolled his eyes. "That ain't what I meant, Jack, and you know it."

"Ah," said Jack, one finger raised, "but hear me out, eh?"

"All right," said Jack Shaftoe, settling himself more comfortably. There was, Jack was pleased to see, a substantial swelling in his breeches. It made Jack's mouth water.

"This map, mate, shows every little speck and spike of dry land -- and some land that ain't so dry -- in all the Caribbean, right?" He spread out the chart, and set a book at one corner, his supper-loaf at another, to hold it: the stew-bowl he put down on the floor, since it might stain the parchment anew. The rats'd probably relish its contents more than would Jack, anyhow.

"Right," said Shaftoe, peering at an especially bosomy mermaid. Jack insinuated himself betwixt Shaftoe's thighs and the table, and smiled when Shaftoe rocked forward against him, looking up. His tanned cheek pressed against Jack's belly, and set off fireworks and rockets somewhat lower.

Jack swallowed. "We're bound south-east, two days, Saint Lucia," he said, setting his thumb to the corner of Jack Shaftoe's red, glisteny mouth.

"Aye," said Shaftoe thickly, against Jack's hand. He sucked at Jack's thumb, and Jack's cock leapt.

"But any time, mate," he rushed on, determined, "right up till we run the boat up on the beach, we c'n change our minds and set a course for, oooh, Guyana, or Campeachy Bay, or one of those French colonial ports, or right up to Nassau: anywhere we please to go, Jack, for we're free as only pirates -- and Vagabonds, of course -- can be."

"And when we _get_ to Nassau, Captain Sparrow, will you have thought of an answer to my question?"

Jack could not help but grin at Shaftoe's sharp impatience, for more than ever it seemed that, rather than being immovably set against any manner of fun, he merely wished to be _persuaded_ to it; if not to the extremest depths of depravity, then at least to some of its more interesting shallows.

"My point, Mr Shaftoe, is just this: we -- you and I -- do what we wish, when we wish it, and 'tis just as true for what you and I might do here, tonight, and tomorrow, whenever it pleases us."

Shaftoe's intense blue gaze had flicked back to the cot as Jack said 'tonight', and Christ, he longed to be lying there skin to skin: but Jack Shaftoe's certain hands on him were hardly a penance, and neither was the way he pushed Jack gently back 'til he could hear the parchment rustle against his shirt. Oh, 'twas bliss, and surely Shaftoe'd got the gist, now, of Jack's argument; to wit, that Jack would merely _guide_ and _demonstrate_ and _encourage_ , and Shaftoe -- no matter that he shrank from anything approaching buggery -- might pick and choose as he pleased from the other activities and entertainments that Jack invited him to savour.

Though sometime he'd have to talk Shaftoe out of this nonsensical notion of doing as he'd be done by: for Jack had a list, a not inconsiderable list, of things that he'd like Jack Shaftoe to do to him, and he had a feeling that some of them might not be, as it were, welcomed quid pro quo.

Perhaps not tonight, though. Perhaps tonight he'd simply guide Jack Shaftoe's hand to clasp him just _so_ , and demonstrate what he had in mind by reaching into Shaftoe's breeches -- quickly enough unbuttoned, if a man had the trick of it -- and wrapping his own hand 'round Shaftoe's heavy yard, and making, oh god, any noise he liked against Jack Shaftoe's mouth, as Shaftoe demonstrated an encouraging dexterity, and --

Oh, for heaven's sake, not _again_. "What?" snapped Jack, pushing up into Shaftoe's slowing hand. Jack Shaftoe was not even looking at him any more. He was staring at Jack's shoulder: no, at the map beneath him. Bloody mermaids, no --

Oh Christ, the _map_! Francis Sparrow's precious map of all the isles, and Jack's own key to that Spanish treasure his father'd sought: and now Jack was fornicating (or attempting to) atop the venerable document, with no thought for its preservation. He twisted and turned to see what damage he'd wrought.

"Look, just there," said Shaftoe softly, as though eavesdroppers lurked at every knot-hole and chink. "Is that ... is that writing, Jack?"


	49. impofperversity | An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter Forty-Eight

  


Jack could see that Sparrow found this assertion highly improbable; he twisted briefly, and saw that the map was still in one piece, and then his hand, his clever callused hand, began to move again on Jack’s yard, and he muttered against Jack’s neck, “No, mate; no writing on it, save the names of these isles and their various settlements and geographies, just like any map. ‘Tis what’s made it such a very difficult _guide_ , over all these years. P’rhaps you just spied some lovely curlicue, a wriggly sigil; my granddaddy loved a squirly bit of ink, he did.” His other hand, sliding inside Jack’s shirt, illustrated this idea with pointy fingertips, and Jack squirmed and sighed, but looked again; and this time would not be distracted. This might be important; might be a way to find his—their—his—fortune. He pulled his hand from Sparrow’s breeches, and was surprisingly gratified by the whimper of complaint that resulted from that action.

“No, there,” he said, and peered closer, pointing; “It don’t even look like ink, Jack.”

Sparrow sighed theatrically and said, “Well, if I’m failing to keep your attention, I should by all means stop.” Which he did; and Jack looked at him, and made that same whimpering noise back at him, and grinned, which at least brought a smile.

“Right here,” said Jack, “Here, by your shoulder, see?”

He took hold of Sparrow’s arm, to pull him up (and was sure that Sparrow flexed the muscle of it a-purpose as he did so) and pointed to the faded brown marks.

“That wasn’t there, before,” said Sparrow, confusion writ large. “Have I something on my back, Jack, have I printed upon it?”

“No, nothing,” said Jack, and then, “Quick, it’s fading; what does it say? What?” He took down the lanthorn from its hook, and put it down on the edge of the table; they both hunched over the map, Sparrow frowning and running his finger over the paling lines. “I think it was an ‘f’, and an ‘r’,” he said, “but it’s going, going so fast, it’s—oh, damnation!”

“But it is writing, ain’t it?” said Jack, excited. “A message?”

“I’d say so, Jack,” said Sparrow, his eyes even brighter than before, if that were possible. “But however d’you suppose we bring it back?” he wondered, a finger to the corner of his mouth.

Jack laughed. “Have you learnt nothing of alchemy, Captain Sparrow? To reproduce the _effects_ of a successful experiment, one has to reassemble the _ingredients_ , and then _combine_ them in a similar manner.”

Sparrow’s lips curled up at the corners. “I take it you’re suggesting that I lay myself back down ‘pon this parchment and permit you to continue your ravishment?”

“Purely out of scientific curiosity,” said Jack, “I’m willing to give it a go.”

Sparrow pulled Jack down upon himself, then, and kissed him hard and fast, and muttered, “You know as well as I do that ‘twas heat as brought that message to our eyes; and oh Jack, I can’t think of a single thing that could produce more of _that_ than your hands upon me.”

“I suspect you can,” Jack said, grinning; and then, armed with this perfect excuse, the need to generate heat in the delectable body of Jack Sparrow, he let his good hand go wandering to all the places it wanted to be; up inside Sparrow’s shirt, over the hard curve of his ribcage, shivering over a raised nipple; caressing the soft flesh of his underarm and the perfect feathery hair there. Sparrow’s hands were doing the same, up over Jack’s back, and then pushing down into his breeches, and Jack gave a little warning growl that brought him a laugh in return; “Calm down Mr Shaftoe, I’ll be a good boy, but can’t I even do _this_?” There were wide-splayed fingers reaching across his buttocks, and pulling him close, helping him grind against the body below, and Jack had to admit that it felt nothing but good, fiery-good, and he bit and licked at Sparrow’s ear, tonguing its salty depths till the pirate was undulating deliciously and screwing up his sharp nose, his mouth open wide and dark, his breath coming faster.

Jack pushed aside the long dark hair that was obscuring the map from his view, and (mouth still firmly affixed to Sparrow’s neck) peered down to see whether there was any reappearing text; there was, he was certain, but oh, it was faint still. He lifted himself on one elbow, just enough to get his hand between them; ran that hand down the soft, hot trail of hair on Sparrow’s belly, ah, god, so sweetly animal it was, and that lovely taut concavity of belly, curving up to sharp hipbone; it felt so wonderful ‘gainst his fingers, and he wanted more of it, more, on all his skin. But first, a little alchemical experiment of his own: he reached down, fumbling with the one or two buttons that remained, and with slow deliberation wrapped his hand about Jack Sparrow’s silky yard. Sparrow made a little sound, and pushed up into Jack’s hand, and Jack could feel the throb of blood beneath his fingers, and he kissed and licked at that salty throat, at the dipping curves of collarbone and shoulder, and stroked Jack Sparrow firm and sure.

And peered again, and smiled; there were darker lines there now, he was sure of it. “I c’n see it,” he panted, and Sparrow said, “I don’t care, do that harder, do it more, ah Christ give me your mouth!” and pulled Jack to him, no gentleness now in his kiss, fierce in a way that made Jack’s blood jump yet again, harder and sweeter; and then he was pushing Jack’s shirt up and away and over his head, and rolling and wriggling till they lay almost side by side on the groaning table, and reaching down to Jack’s own hardness. Jack hissed when the hand touched him, and groaned louder than the complaining oak beneath him; that morning seemed like aeons ago, he’d been full of that delicious heavy need to spend for so long it seemed, so very long. They crushed up against one another, Sparrow throwing a leg over Jack’s thigh and pulling him closer and kissing him harsh and deep, the rhythm of their hands on one another speeding and rushing and greedy, till Sparrow drew back and bit his lip and said, “Right, I really need to get _off the map_ now Jack, or I shall make a whole new ocean upon it,” and they scrambled upright.

There the lines were: stark and clear, wriggling and flowing across the paper, and Jack said, “Quick, read it—see, it begins to fade already!”

*

He was right, but Jack was muzzy-headed and panting, and reading the words over and over to himself, mouthing them, trying to burn them into his recall, but they were disappearing fast, melting back into the age-darkened parchment. “I need a pen!” he cried, and was about to tear himself from Jack Shaftoe’s burning arms and go in search, but Shaftoe would not release him. They struggled silent for a second or more, and then Shaftoe said, urgent and quick, “Read it to me, Jack! Read it!” And he shook Jack, just a little, to emphasise his certainty.

Jack shivered in delight at the sureness of Shaftoe’s command, and said, “From the mouth of my love’s hopes to her sweet majesty, and the frank child’s slow darling to his quick and singing, there when Phoebe calls no more.” And then the words were gone.

“What’s that mean?” said Shaftoe, and Jack shook his head.

“I don’t know; but we can bring it back, again, with pen at hand… now that we know how,” he added, with a grin. But Shaftoe smiled broad and said, “No call for that, Jack, it can stay all hid and secret; I have it now.”

“Well, so’ve I, mostly,” said Jack. “The hopes, and the majesty, and the child’s darling, and Phoebe and all; but ‘tis the _detail_ of the thing that may count, Jack.”

“I have the detail,” said Shaftoe, and reeled the lines back to Jack; and he had to admit, it did sound right.

“When you can’t read,” said Shaftoe, clearly rather pleased with himself, “you learn to _listen_.”

“’Zat so?” said Jack, sliding his hands over Shaftoe’s glowing flesh, the goldy glimmer of hair on his chest. He was so delighted to’ve found this information, truly he was; and yet, it would still be there on the morrow, and right now, right here, was something even _more_ interesting; here was Jack Shaftoe, smart and smug and all hands and lechery, and that simply couldn’t be ignored. “What if I tried awf’ly hard to make you forget it?”

“You might make me forget for a while,” said Shaftoe, peeling away Jack’s shirt, “But I promise you it’ll come back, soon’s I’m in my right mind again.”

“Meanwhile,” muttered Jack, licking Shaftoe’s collarbone, “Let me take you out of it, eh, and you can return the favour ‘pon me.”

“Take me… out of my right mind?”

“Not to mention your breeches,” said Jack happily, and pushed them down, over Shaftoe’s eager yard, and Shaftoe stepped out of them, pulling the same at Jack’s, and hauling up his shirt with the bandaged hand, wincing as he did so, and Jack berated himself for ignoring the man’s injury, for being so focussed on his own desperate urges; “Is your hand all right?” he asked, belatedly, but Jack Shaftoe, bare and bold, just flicked his eyes up to the beams as though this were an entirely irrelevant question, and walked Jack backwards to the cot, still a mess of tangled sheets from the morning’s activities.

“Come on,” said Shaftoe. “Let’s finish what we started, eh?”

Jack agreed that this was indeed a fine plan. “But how d’you care to finish it, Jack? D’you want my hand? Or d’you fancy my mouth? Or… or this morning, you seemed interested in some pretty _pretence_ of fucking, and, ah Jack do that again, hah, oh yes… and, I mean, I should be happy wi’ any one of those, and—”

“Mouth,” said Jack Shaftoe, indistinctly, against Jack’s neck.

“Oh, good choice,” said Jack.

“But—”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Jack, pulling Shaftoe closer, till their hips met jarringly and Jack gasped and Shaftoe hissed as his cock slammed into Jack’s belly. “I know, your arse is off-limits.”

Shaftoe’s hands, one all cottony, the other deliciously not, clutched at Jack’s behind, and Jack clenched, and Shaftoe grinned. Oh, that crooked tooth! “That’s not what I was going to say,” he proclaimed.

“Oh, _excellent_ , so it’s not off-limits, I can’t tell you how happy that makes me!”

Shaftoe gave Jack the Look that this comment deserved, and said, blushing only a little, “ _But_ … but I liked it, this morning, when we… when we spent together; I liked to, to… to feel it happening to you, as I felt it in me.”

“Fair enough,” said Jack, and his voice came out more growl than anything else just to think of it. He scrambled onto his cot, head to the foot, and Shaftoe, grinning and flushed and pulsing with some bright energy and need, gorgeous as could be, climbed up beside him, top-to-tail; and then paused, just watching Jack, as if suddenly unsure of what to do, or where to start.

Jack, entirely delighted by these constant little moments of uncertainty and strange innocence from this man, who was so definitely _neither_ of those things, gave him a wide encouraging smile, and scooted down, and leant across, and slid an arm between Shaftoe’s thighs to pull him closer (flashing back, for a moment, to Shaftoe up on deck, ripping his tattered breeches high, just to taunt him; flushing with warmth to now be here, rubbing his face against those same limbs); bent, and ran his tongue up the blood-dark length of Shaftoe’s prick. Gorgeous, it was; a lovely organ, though it bore more than one subtle faded scar of old pox-places. Jack was hardly one to complain of that, though; and he licked again, and sucked in a sudden breath as Shaftoe did the same upon him. They twisted round one another, snaky and greedy, and Jack set himself to teaching Jack Shaftoe some sweet detail, some Advanced Knowledge, of what it was to please a man this way.

Shaftoe—oh, he’d known it would be so—was quick and sure, and having done this thing once, seemed now to’ve determined that it might as well be done twice, and done properly. He mimicked every action of Jack’s, every swipe of tongue, every gentle nip, every hungry suckling, and it made the most perfect, self-regenerating, building circle of pleasure and desire as Shaftoe’s hips bucked t’ward Jack’s mouth, and Jack took him deep and felt himself accepted deeper into Jack Shaftoe’s fiery wet mouth. And there, Shaftoe’s arm between Jack’s thighs, pressing him, clutching at him, and the noises that came from deep in Shaftoe’s throat were driving Jack quite insane, both for their vibrations on his cock and the delicious implications of them in his ears. He made the same sound in return, and felt the shudder through Shaftoe’s body, and needed more, more, and again and again; took Shaftoe as deep in his throat as he could, but tried so hard not to push too far in, himself, for fear of Shaftoe’s inexperience. Which made it twice as sweet when Shaftoe pulled him in, and he felt a click of jawbone as Shaftoe opened wide and wanting, oh, it was perfection.

Jack felt giddy, floating and yet so perfectly grounded here against Shaftoe’s flesh, and he pulsed with delight at the thought of all the nights and days to come, with Jack Shaftoe at his side and in his bed and under his hands and his mouth and his body. He wanted to say it, to tell Shaftoe how perfectly, deliciously dirty he was, and how he made Jack feel, and how Jack wanted him in every way, but of course could not; and instead, he sucked hard, and thrust and trembled and hummed, and suddenly his mouth and throat were filled with hot liquid, faintly bitter, as Shaftoe stiffened and his chest expanded against Jack’s belly with his heaving breath. Jack clenched a fist to stop himself doing the same, thinking that Shaftoe had not wanted it, before; but oh, the hand on his arse was all digging fingers and demand, and Shaftoe made some affirmative sound (or so Jack chose to interpret it) and who was he to argue, when oh fuck he wanted to so horribly much; and Shaftoe’s prick still twitched and spurted in his mouth as he let go, and burningly, wonderfully, went out of his right mind.


	50. An Alchemical Prescription,  49

  
  
Jack Shaftoe reached down, and met Sparrow coming up, and there in the middle of the bed they kissed, all messy and sticky and salty and bitter. Jack's mouth itched and tingled with the strangeness of it, of drinking down another man's seed: oh, he'd had girls who'd done this service for him, and he'd always bidden them rinse their mouths with wine or beer before he'd kiss them again. The thought of tasting his own seed had revolted him; even now it made a queasy roil leap in his stomach. But here he was, tasting himself in Sparrow's hot glairy mouth, and tasting Sparrow's sharper, sweeter semen as it mingled on their tongues. The roiling in his stomach lessened, for the kiss was very sweet, and the feel of Sparrow in his arms, holding onto him all hard and lean and strong, was sweeter yet.

"Getting a taste for it, are we?" teased Sparrow, drawing back. There were creamy beads, still, pearling his beard-braids, and a smeary dampness on his tanned cheek. Jack leaned forward and licked at it, buying himself time. He did not know what to say, and feared saying anything at all, in case he found himself committed to more depravities.

"Nay, it's not to every man's liking," said Sparrow then, and Jack phant'sied he could hear rueful resignation in the other's voice.

"No, no," he insisted. "I liked it well enough." He kissed Jack Sparrow full on the lips, and lapped again at his smile. "And ... and I liked it better for the feel of you, spending as I spent."

Sparrow's buoyancy was instantly restored. He wriggled up the cot until he lay next to Jack, pressed close, softened prick against the tender sweaty crease of Jack's thigh, and pushed his face against Jack's own.

"Well, Jack Shaftoe, I'll tell you true: I'm ever so keen on spending in your company, and I hope to do it all over again, in all manner of ways, for as long as you're ... as long as you'll have it."

Jack heard the unspoken question in those words, and shied from answering it. He had not thought, yet, beyond this fortune of Spanish gold, and the freedom it'd buy him: he certainly hadn't thought of staying, after St Lucia. And Sparrow had not _asked_ him to stay: which made Jack briefly indignant, at being so used and cast aside, before he came to his senses and knew that he'd have mocked such an invitation most mercilessly.

Never mind that now. Jack Sparrow's quick dext'rous hand was roving all over Jack's torso, spanning the distance from nipple to nipple, and Sparrow's mouth was tracing twisty lines and curlicues over Jack's soft vulnerable belly, and Jack wanted to do the same and more. He hitched himself up on one elbow, and Sparrow stretched out obligingly, opening himself for all and everything that Jack might care to do with, to, him. It made Jack dizzy, like the laudanum had: all that golden skin, all that firm muscle: that twitching, swelling yard that he'd had in his mouth, right to his throat, no more than minutes ago. All there for the taking, all offered up to him, Jack Shaftoe, for his delectation.

'Twould be a shame to waste it.

He pulled Sparrow close, left-handed though his hand was throbbing more than a little, and kissed him soundly again, though his mouth was dry and stale now.

"Is there aught to drink?" he said; then, to Sparrow's lewd grin, " _now_ , I mean, not in half a glass, or however long it'll take you to spend again."

Sparrow's yard was filling and pressing against Jack's own. He narrowed his eyes, and held Jack's gaze, and said, "Oh, not very long at _all_ , Mr Shaftoe, not with _you_ around. But rum does chase it down terribly well, I'll grant you." And he twisted free of Jack's embrace, and off the cot.

Jack could not help but make a noise of complaint, though truly the sight of Jack Sparrow, naked and shadowed in the golden lanthorn-light, was a delight. He wanted to set his hands, his mouth, perhaps even other parts of him, to all the hidden hollows of that body: wanted it to give up its secrets and sigh his name. If it brought him rum abed, too, he'd be utterly satisfied.

Jack sighed gustily for the single, brazen purpose of causing Sparrow to look back at him, his gaze as hot as candle-flame, that wicked smile curving his mouth with promises. Jack basked in the smile, distantly amazed that Sparrow should admire him so, and amused at his own craving for that admiration.

Sparrow had reached across for the pottery flask of rum on the railed shelf above the table. He paused for a long moment, eyes cast down, and at first -- for the pose showed to great advantage the sinuous curve of Sparrow's spine, and the high sweet swell of his arse, and the length and strength of his legs -- Jack took this for more harlotry. Then he saw that Sparrow was gazing at the map, still spread out on the table though one corner of it had rolled centrewards.

"Jack?" he said.

"Mr Shaftoe," said Sparrow, with a sparking glance over his shoulder, "would you be so kind as to recite that little riddle back to me? Assuming, of course, that you're temporarily in your right mind."

"How can I be in my right mind?" retorted Jack. "I'm in your bed. Waiting, I might add, for you to bring me rum before I 'xpire of thirst."

"In a moment," said Sparrow. "So you've forgot it, then?"

"I have not!" said Jack, and began to recite the nonsense that Sparrow had read him not an hour since.

Sparrow held up a hand before he'd said ten words. "That's it! 'The mouth of my love's hope': and, Jack, there's a river here, by name the Esperance."

"Like 'esperanza', that's Spanish for hope?" said Jack, intrigued despite himself. "But what's that to do with ... with 'my love'?" (He took care to pronounce these two words with theatrickal weight, in case of confusion.)

"'Tis the French word, too," Sparrow told him. "And my granny was a lass from Dunkirk."

* * *

Oh, naked Jack Shaftoe, all lean and lithe, coming up close behind Jack to peer over his shoulder at the map! And oh, Jack Shaftoe's broad hot hand, ever so casually coming to rest at Jack's waist! Jack could not resist writhing back, just a little, against Shaftoe's warm solidity; and, when Shaftoe's wakening cock nudged against him, just a little more.

"Where's this river, then?" said Shaftoe.

"There," said Jack, pointing, "on the north-east coast. Now, Jack, tell me the riddle again?"

Shaftoe reeled it off obligingly. Jack could feel his voice rumble in his chest, where it pressed against Jack's shoulder, and Shaftoe's sheer _presence_ sent another surge of lust through his entire body. Oh, he had to have Jack Shaftoe, any and every way that he'd permit: and he had to make him stay on, after St Lucia and this fabled treasure: and, moreover, persuade him that it'd been his own idea, that he'd never thought of going. For Shaftoe had left him, and the _Black Pearl_ , once already: and Jack could see that he was not a man accustomed to staying in one place, or with one person, for more than a handful of days together.

Jack hoped to cure him of this wanderlust.

"Her sweet majesty," he said aloud. "Sweet like honey? A queen bee?"

"Sweet like rum?" suggested Shaftoe, reaching for the flask in Jack's hand. He took a swallow. "Or, no: didn't you say earlier, Jack, that your gaffer sailed with Ralegh?"

"Aye," said Jack, frowning, "but --"

"Back in Good Queen Bess's day, if I recall aright," said Shaftoe: and, from his tone, his recall was word-perfect. Perhaps, thought Jack, there's something to what he said about _listening_ : better watch what I say when he's about. "So maybe she's 'her sweet majesty', eh?"

"Could be, could be," said Jack. He reclaimed the rum and took a long, dark draught of it, leaning over the map again: utterly innocent, honestly, of the way that his arse pressed back against Shaftoe's prick, which was now very definitely interested in its situance.

Shaftoe rocked against him, gentle enough for the movement to have been a rogue wave's swell, though the sea was calm tonight. Jack edged back, still abstractedly scanning the fringe of minuscule lettering that hugged the charted coast. Each cape, each river, each cliff must have its name, and somewhere amid 'em all would be a Bess, an Elizabeth, a Gloriana, a Regina. Jesus and Mary, but it was hard to think straight, hard to _read_ , with Shaftoe all gloriously hard against him thus: though Jack chuckled at the thought of Shaftoe's reaction if the tables were turned.

"What's funny?" demanded Shaftoe.

"Just wondering when you'd like me to return the favour," said Jack sweetly, bucking his hips to clarify the exchange he had in mind.

Shaftoe, dismayingly, pulled back. "I didn't realise we were playing turn-and-turn," he sulked.

"Nay, nothing you don't wish," said Jack hastily. "I told you so: now won't you come, oh yes that's good Jack ..." For Shaftoe's cock was sliding in the cleft of Jack's arse, all dry and hot and promising, and Jack was incapable of resistance in word or deed.

"I promised you," he managed, opening his thighs a little, just a little more, "your virgin arse is safe from me as long --"

"Virgin?" exclaimed Shaftoe, stilling.

"Well, it is!" protested Jack, wondering if the application of a spit-slick hand would be welcome assistance or deflating practicality. "Not that --"

"No, Jack: _Virgin_!" said Shaftoe gleefully.

"I certainly am -- ow!"

"Din't they call Queen Bess the _Virgin Queen_ , eh? Don't you think so, Jack?" Shaftoe left Jack's back all cool and clammy (and his arse still warm and stinging from the slap), and came up beside him to stare at the map, and then at Jack. "Ain't there a Virgin something-or-other somewhere on there?"

"I can see one from here, mate," said Jack, grinning; grinning more when this riposte elicited the Look again. "But since you've stopped what you were doing -- doing very delightfully and inventively, if I may say so -- I might as well entertain myself by squinting at Granddad's penmanship."

He peered, first of all, along the island's west coast: the Esperance River debouched on the east coast, so if the treasure was hidden, buried, stashed somewhere in Saint Lucia's green forested hills then the line must cross the island, or some part of it. Francis Sparrow's map, though, did not much concern itself with the interior. A couple of mountains were marked and named -- La Sorcière, Les Pitons -- but there was nothing to suggest queens, or virgins, or ... mmm, Shaftoe was plastered against his back again, his hand on Jack's cock, his breath on Jack's ear: oh, he was sweetly and surely keen, and Jack really, really didn't want him to stop, and it wasn't the end of the world if he wouldn't let Jack do the same unto him, and how far --

A long, suggestive promontory, low on the east coast, caught Jack's roving gaze. He blinked, and tried to focus on the cramped lettering, and not on the sensation of Shaftoe's yard (quite definitely firm now) pushing like a velvety brand between the cheeks of Jack's arse --

"There," he gasped.

"There?" said Shaftoe against Jack's neck, and bit him again.

"There," managed Jack, hazily proud of himself for still being able to think of any place that was not ablaze with Jack Shaftoe's touch. "There: Pointe de Vierge."


	51. impofperversity | An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter Fifty

  


Jack's dreams were heavy and dark, and full of tumbling and rolling and falling. He was not enjoying them 'specially much, and couldn't call it a peaceful sleep; he came awake quickly at the sound of a peremptory knock on the door, and of Jack Sparrow's sleepy, "Who's there?"  
  
There was a voice speaking outside, but it was barely audible. The wind had come up and was wailing and howling, thrumming in the canvas far above them; the ship was creaking as she pitched in great troughy waves, and the cot swayed and lurched beneath Jack, rolling him close and warm against Sparrow's back and explaining away all those dreams. The cabin was entirely black; a close-smelling womb (all redolent of the two of them now, and Jack had a sudden rush of what it might be like, to be here in the pure dark with Jack Sparrow, with no lantern to light up all his ignorance); but through the cracks in the door came thin goldy beams of light.  
  
"What?" said Sparrow more loudly, and then, to Jack's dismay, "Either speak up, or get in here, will you?"  
  
The door opened, revealing a flickery lantern and the peaky face of Martingale, and Jack sat bolt upright in the suddenly incomplete darkness, quite horrified to be found here, naked in the Captain's cot, hard alongside its rightful occupant; 'twas one thing to've given in to his desires in the privacy of this cabin, and quite another to receive visitors while still _in situ_. Sparrow must've known what he was thinking, without his saying a word, for he grumbled, "Hold fast, Mr Martingale, and speak up; what d'ye want?"  
  
"Mr Cooper asks if you'll be so kind as to join him on deck, Cap'n; weather's building, and he's unsure whether 'twould be better to seek shelter, or ride it on, if we've a sure destination."  
  
"Tell him I'll be with him in five minutes," said Sparrow, and gave a great yawn, rolling onto his back and stretching as much as the cramped cot would let him; a move which resulted in his wide-spread fingers meeting Jack's shoulder, and staying there. Jack peered, scowling, into the doorway; aye, Martingale could see him, all right, and was holding the lantern aloft, grinning at him. Little—!  
  
"Off with you!" said Sparrow, craning his head up. "Five minutes, I said, can't a man dress in peace?"  
  
"Aye, Captain," said Martingale, and retreated, but he did not stop smirking at Jack all the while. The door closed, and blackness returned; Jack lay himself back down, and heaved a sigh.  
  
"I hate to tell you this, Jack," said Sparrow, "but I suspect they'd guessed it already. You weren't very _restrained_ , before."  
  
It was true; they'd made a certain amount of, well, noise. Although: "I wasn't the one howling, what was it, 'Jack, ah ah ah Jaaaack'," said Jack, finding a certain smugness quite unavoidable.  
  
"Well, for all _they_ know, you were," retorted Sparrow, nudging him in the ribs.  
  
"Bollocks," said Jack stoutly. "Look at the two of us; who'd you guess to be the screamer, eh?"  
  
Sparrow laughed, hard enough to start a fit of coughing, and Jack took advantage of his distraction to slide an enquiring hand over Sparrow's belly, to feel the muscles contracting there. But Sparrow took his hand, and moved it away; "Don't start, Mr Shaftoe, I'm needed up top," he said, but there was a delightful tinge of regret in it; and he leant over, feeling his way up to Jack's face, and kissed him on the mouth, full of sleep still, his hair falling down all warm and tickling over Jack's face and throat. "Mmmph," said Jack, and kissed him back; but no sooner had he opened his lips, to deepen the kiss into one of those delicious things that he recalled from last night, than Sparrow sighed and pulled away.  
  
"Ah well, go and do your duty then. D'ye need me?" said Jack as Sparrow got up, and began feeling about on the floor for his clothes.  
  
"Are we talking of 'bove decks, now, or right here?" came the voice from the darkness, and it was as full of leer and smirk as its owner's face would've been, had there been any light to see it by. "I must warn you I've a tendency to confuse my _needs_ with my _wants_ , it's never seemed to be a terribly useful distinction."  
  
"I'll take that as a 'no', and I think I'll stay right here, then," said Jack. "And get some more sleep. Since I'm so awf'ly injured, and all, and of course so remarkably little use to you in any sort of _sailorly_ capacity."  
  
"Oh, I wouldn't say _that_ , Mr Shaftoe… but you get some sleep; I think you've already over-excited enough of my company this morning," muttered Sparrow, pulling on his boots, from the sound of it, and apparently having noticed young Martingale's interested gaze.  
  
"Well, you can put Martingale straight, while you're up and about," said Jack grumpily, and Sparrow huffed with laughter and knelt beside the cot, whispering close to Jack's ear, all tickle and hot breath.  
  
"By all means, if that'll make you happy, Jack. Perhaps something like this: Mr Martingale," he murmured, "Mr Shaftoe bids me tell you that his arse is untouched territory. As is mine, recently at any rate, though not by personal decree. And he also asks that I should clarify the situation to you, which is as follows; Mr Shaftoe will let me kiss him, and lick him, and put my hand to him, and e'en my tongue, and he'll reciprocate, Mr Martingale, oh aye; he'll take my cock in his burning mouth and drink down all he can, but he ain't no sodomite, Mr Martingale, get that straight. He'll fuck me 'twixt my thighs and let me fuck his fist as he does, and we'll both come like thunder, but it ain't nothing _unnatural_ , Mr Martingale, I promise you."  
  
Jack, his blood fighting to rush simultaneously to his cheeks and his groin, pushed Sparrow away with a growl. "Get out," he said, with little heat, and Sparrow laughed low, and did so.  
  
*  
  
It wasn't far from dawn, and in the east Jack could see the faintest suggestion of lightening; but clouds obscured the stars across the western sky, and the wind blew fierce and hot, plucking at his coat and whipping his hair about his face. Cooper was at the helm, fighting the wheel, and Jack joined him.  
  
"So, Mr Cooper, you've dragged me from my bed—"  
  
"I'm terrible sorry for it, Captain," said Cooper, with a sly grin that belied the claim.  
  
"Well, you should be," said Jack, looking down his nose at him. "It was not an easy bed to leave, tonight. What's your excuse for doing so, eh? So the wind's up a little; it ain't exactly a hurricano, is it?"  
  
"Not yet," said Cooper, darkly. "But all's I knew is that we were heading for St Lucia, and soon we'll be drawing parallel to her northern coast; we'd be more sheltered if we headed for the east coast, but I'd no clue if that's where you want us to be."  
  
"Aye," said, Jack, rather smugly, "East it is."  
  
"East it is," parroted Cooper.  
  
"Excellent," said Jack, already considering whether or not Jack Shaftoe might've dropped off to sleep again yet. All that teasing him about Martingale had been in fun (and quite irresistible; did Jack Shaftoe know he'd sat up with a little gasp, like some blushing maid, when the door opened? All tousled hair and swollen lips and sleepy frown; it really was too delightful); but it had put wicked, lecherous ideas back into Jack's head. He felt like a sixteen-year-old lad; he couldn't think about a damn thing at the moment, save getting up to mischief with Jack Shaftoe. He was half-raw with too much mischief, already (he rearranged himself, surreptitiously, where—now that he thought on it—his breeches were rubbing rather cruelly) and yet, oh, just the thought of those long-fingered hands, and that dimple, and those astonishingly wicked blue eyes, was enough to make him want it all over again. He turned to go.  
  
"Wait, Captain," said Cooper, and Jack froze, theatrically, and turned to give him an impatient quizzical look. "There's one other thing."  
  
"And that is…?"  
  
"For the last three hours or so, I'm sure I've caught glimpses of a light out behind us."  
  
"Ooh, my!" cried Jack, with heavy sarcasm. "Do you think it might be—horrors—another _ship_ , Mr Cooper? By any chance?"  
  
"If it is, Cap'n," said Cooper doggedly, though he frowned a little at Jack's tone, "It's taking pains to stay with us. We're moving fast, for such a moonless night, and they're not letting us out of sight."  
  
Jack sighed; Cooper was not a foolish fellow, nor one given to idle fancies. He scanned the blackness, where Cooper pointed, and after a while, there it was; a pale pin-prick of light.  
  
"Take that eastern heading," he ordered, and then waited with grim patience to see what the light would do; and indeed, when they turned, it swung round to their portside; but slowly, slowly, over the next half hour, as the grey light grew in the east, it corrected back. They were, indeed, being followed.  
  
Bootstrap had come up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, as Jack watched and waited, and Jack pointed out the tiny speck, which was becoming less visible with every minute, as the light dawned.  
  
"We should take in sail," Bill reckoned. "Let them catch up a little; send Joe Henry up, see if he can make 'em out; and then, with this gale, we can outrun 'em again if we see a need."  
  
"I'm with you on that," Jack agreed, and gave the orders; spidery silhouettes scrambled aloft. He called for Henry, young and sharp-eyed, and gave him his glass, and instructions to come down as soon as he'd determined their follower's type and nation.  
  
"Eh, Bill," Jack said, nudging his friend, "You'll never guess what me and Mr Shaftoe discovered, last night."  
  
Bill rolled his eyes. "I don't think you're the first to _discover_ it, Jack." He didn't care, really he didn't, what Jack Sparrow got up to in the dark quiet of his cabin, but neither did he care to hear the details. And last night hadn't been that quiet, either.  
  
Jack just laughed. "Nah, mate, I'm not offering up a kiss-and-tell, here. This is a real discovery. There was a message, on my Granddaddy's map. A secret message."  
  
"Truly? How'd you find it?"  
  
"Now, that _would_ be kissing and telling. But that ain't the point, Bill; the point is that it'll tell us where to look. Exactly where to look."  
  
Bill was interested now, very interested. "What's it say, then?"  
  
"Oh, some nonsense about mouths and darlings and virgins," said Jack airily, though he did think as he said it that surely the original wasn't quite as lewd as he was managing to make it sound. "Mr Shaftoe recalls it. Anyway, I think it's co-ordinates, and we solved two points, so we've one line already, and it runs down the eastern coast  
of St Lucia."  
  
"But four points is what we'll need," said Bill, doing that cup-half-empty thing that drove Jack quite mad.  
  
"All right then," said Jack, stung. "Let's take it down below, then, and figure out the rest of it over some breakfast. Mr Cooper, send Henry down when he descends; and don't let our shadow get too close, eh?"  
  
*  
  
He spread the map over a table in the galley; he'd crept into the cabin, quiet as snow, to get it, and looked down on sleeping Jack Shaftoe in the grey light. Oh, it wouldn't do to wake him, not at all; he deserved his sleep, after last night. Jack'd taken the map, and his writing box, and made an exit as silent as his entrance.  
  
The forenoon watch were not yet rousing, and the galley was empty save for Jack and Bill. Jack was scribbling busily, trying to remember the message.  
  
"See, the first line, Bill, 'twas all about the "mouth of my love's hopes"; that's the mouth of the Esperance river, there, bein' French for hope and all—yes, I'm sure you _did_ know that, Bill—and my granny, his love, being French; and "her sweet majesty", why that's the Virgin Queen, ain't it, Pointe de Vierge, right there; Mr Shaftoe got that one, that _virgin_ thing." He couldn't resist a wicked glance up at Bill Turner as he said that, and Bill laughed and shook his handsome head and said he really, really didn't want to know about it.  
  
"So, anyway, there's our first cross-piece; and the rest of the rhyme, why I think it went something about a frank child, and his darlings, and one was slow, and t'other quick; and then, then…" he scribbled madly. "Ah, something about a woman called Phoebe, I cain't remember. Jack'll know."  
  
"D'int you say your grandda's name was Francis?"  
  
" _Phoebe_ , you deaf bugger, not Francis."  
  
"No, no; there, the 'frank child'; if the first line's talking 'bout his wife, couldn't the second be about his child? 'Bout your father? The child of Francis, of Frank?"  
  
"Ooh, nicely, Bill… but who would my daddy's darlings be? Unless my mother or… but no, he was a child when this was writ… and when he was a child, ah! _Ah_! William Turner, you're not as stupid as you look, I swear!"  
  
"Your appreciation's overwhelming, Jack."  
  
"Animals, Bill, and my granny never stopped complaining of it! Every animal you could think of, he'd bring it home, birds and rabbits and rats given the chance, and even a, yes!" Jack jumped up with such alacrity he nearly hit his head upon a beam, and then had to duck from the lanthorn, which was swinging wildly as the _Pearl_ yawed. "There, Pointe Tortue! His slow darling, his tortoise! That thing was still alive when I was a nipper. And, and, and…" He hunched over the map again, finger circling the island, squinting in the bad light, leaning this way and that to get his shadow off the parchment.  
  
"What about this one?" said Bill, "If he had birds?" And he pointed to a bay marked _Anse des Canaries_.  
  
"That's it! 'Quick and singing', it said!" cried Jack, and he leant back against the bulkhead with a beatific smile. "He had a dozen or more of the bloody things; built such a big cage, my mama used it for quail. So, now, look at this; we make a line, _thus_ ; and see;" he traced it down, to where it intersected with his first. "There, on the slopes of La Sorcière, what, a mile or so inland; that's where we're bound!"  
  
Jack was so caught up in the delight of this that he barely noticed Joe Henry's arrival, till the boy was standing, panting, at his side; he looked up at the boy with a wide smile, happy with his lot. But Henry's face was pale, and he said, "Captain, you'd best come up, and look again; Mr Cooper don't like what I saw."  


This is the edited version, thank you G! And now my little anal-retentive soul can rest in peace.   



	52. An Alchemical Prescription,  51

  
  
When Jack Shaftoe woke again, it was to a dull metallic glimmer coming through the porthole -- daylight at last, but a day with no sun -- and the roaring rushing sound of an angry sea all around him, just the other side of the _Pearl_ 's black hull. "Storm," thought Jack, struggling to full wakefulness. He recalled Martingale, coming in the night with a flickering lanthorn to fetch Jack Sparrow: recalled Martingale's canny look, the little bastard, at finding Jack all bare in his captain's bed. And, oh, recalled Sparrow's wicked little speech before he went, about what the two of them had done, last night: about what they might do again.

Oh yes: his prick sliding quick and warm, gripped by Sparrow's muscular thighs, slicked by Sparrow's spittled hand: oh, Sparrow rocking back against him, fucking Jack's hand hard and fast, making the most delicious sounds (and they'd been so very _audible_ too, thought Jack, smirking at the memory of Sparrow crying out his, their, name as he spilled over Jack's fingers): oh, the taste of it on his hand as he licked, and fucked, and spent in that warm tight space, muffling his own wail 'gainst the smooth curve of Sparrow's shoulder.

The cot seemed strangely cold and wide without Jack Sparrow's wriggly warmth pressed against him. Jack stretched, and braced himself against the bulkhead as the ship rolled again. He felt sticky, and chafed (though his prick stirred again at the mere _thought_ of Jack Sparrow), and his mouth was tender with kissing. Jack had never been kissed so deliciously before, with such vigour and certainty and hunger and lust; and, oh, with such _affection_ , all quiet in the dark, before Sparrow'd gone up to captain his ship.

But now 'twas morning, and Jack was alone. His belly was empty -- he hadn't cared much for the stew, last night -- and his damaged hand, half-forgotten, throbbed and swelled and itched. Time to tumble out of the cot and seek the essentials of life: food, drink, medicine ...

Jack bit back that thought: Jack Sparrow was a luxury, not a necessity. He pulled on his shirt and breeches, and his boots, and stole Sparrow's other coat from where it hung on a bent nail behind the door. Thus attired, he sallied forth in search of breakfast.

"Good morning, Jack," said Enoch, who was standing just inside the stairwell, peering out at the grey and gusty weather. "How's the hand?"

"Sore," said Jack, wondering whether Enoch'd give him laudanum if he played it right. Worth a try. "Probably needs --"

"Ah, Mr Shaftoe!"

It was Jack Sparrow, hair wild in the fierce hot wind, and Jack thought of mocking (in an amiable way) the glad welcoming smile on his face; but was almost certain that he wore its match.

"Captain," he acknowledged, grinning back. "All's well?"

"There's good news and bad, Jack," said Sparrow, gesturing with the telescope he held. "Which'll you have?"

"Oooh, good news first," said Jack cannily.

"Well, Mr Turner's proved his worth again, and found another two points on that map -- remember, Jack, the slow darling and the quick? (Aye, Enoch: it's a long story, but Bill'll give you the salient points.) 'Tis the animals my da had, as a boy: a tortoise and a clutch of canaries, and there's a point here and a bay there -- I'll show you, later."

"So we've four points, and an X to mark the spot?" cried Jack.

"Aye: but, in other news, we've acquired a _consort_ in the night." Sparrow waved his free hand astern. "A ship, following, and bearing south just as we did. Mr Henry claims -- well, never mind Mr Henry. I'm going aloft to see for myself: perhaps you'd care to join me?"

It took Jack no more than a second to weigh the pros of this invitation (alone with Jack Sparrow; seeing this pursuer for himself) against the cons (climbing with an injured hand; unnecessary exertion; postponement of breakfast). "I'm with you, captain," he said, ignoring the little huff of amusement from Enoch Bloody Root.

The weather hit him like a wet sack. Jack Sparrow was more nimble -- being whole-handed -- on the rigging, and quickly drew ahead. Jack remembered that night when they'd raced to the maintop, up towards the buttery moon, Sparrow in the lead ... Oh, it had all been very different then: a different, ignorant, sneering world. Jack set his teeth and reached and grabbed, reached and grabbed, ignoring the chafing of his canvas breeches against tender parts of his anatomy and the pain in his left hand as he closed his remaining fingers clumsily around this stay or that: and came up to the maintop while Sparrow was still muttering and fiddling with the eyepiece of his glass.

"Sleep well, Mr Shaftoe?" he enquired, swivelling an eye in Jack's direction.

"Oh, eventually," said Jack blithely, manoeuvring himself into the space between Sparrow and the solid wood of the topmast. Even through wet clothes he could feel the heat of the man's body, and longed for it against his own damp skin.

"There," said Sparrow, leaning back against Jack as though it were the most natural thing in the world to steady yourself against your lover. He brought the glass to bear.

Jack, with his naked eye, could just about make out the pale leaf-shape of another ship, some miles to the north-west; silky veils of rain and mist hid and revealed her, and she seemed no more than a colourless ghost. But Sparrow was staring, and frowning.

"What is it, Jack, what d'ye see?" Jack asked at last, impatient and curious.

"'Tis a Spanish jack," said Sparrow, "just as Mr Henry insisted: but there's another device with it, and I don't recognise it at all."

"May I?" said Jack, reaching for the telescope. Sparrow's eyes must be excellent: Jack had to adjust the focus before he could make out the flags at the masthead of the other ship.

"Black and red," he said, and started to add that he'd never seen it before: but something twitched at the edge of his memory.

"Is it some Naval ensign, perhaps?" Sparrow was saying. Jack waved his hand (and nearly lost his balance), begging Sparrow's patience: it was his left hand that he gestured with, and the movement sent a ripple of soreness up to his shoulder.

Pain in his hand, and the smell of smoke ...

"It's a family crest," said Jack, suddenly and utterly certain, black-red rage surging through his veins. "Family colours. And I've seen those colours lately, Jack, and so have you: in the house of Don Alejandro de Braxas."

* * *

"But you said de Braxas was dead," said Enoch Root, doggedly, again.

"If he ain't dead," said Shaftoe shortly, "he's walking around headless. Ain't that so, Jack?"

Jack Sparrow nodded, and tried not to gawp admiringly at Shaftoe as he spooned up sugared gruel and washed it down with small beer. "No man could live with that wound," he assured Enoch. "Now, I phant'sy it's his kith and kin, all bent on revenge in an unnecessarily _Spanish_ way: you're a theatre-goer, Mr Root, you'll grasp the general idea."

"Might just be after the gold, same as us," said Bootstrap.

"In a bit of a hurry, ain't they?" Jack Shaftoe said, through a mouthful.

"Well, it's a race now, innit?"

"You said there was a secret message, coded in that map," put in Enoch.

"De Braxas," said Jack, "wouldn't have worked it out, for all his cleverness: and anyway --"

"He had the map, though," said Shaftoe. "He might've got the answers off your da, somehow."

A small, uncomfortable silence fell as the four of them considered the ways and means by which an unscrupulous Spaniard (de Braxas most definitely falling into this category) might have extracted any amount of information from a prisoner.

"Nah," said Jack, as briskly as he could. "If he'd worked out the riddle, Don Esteban wouldn't've been wand'ring around the Lesser Antilles with his map and his spade, would he? I reckon we're the first to see that puzzle, Jack, for years and years."

Shaftoe raised an eyebrow at him. "Aye? You reckon our methods were _unusual_ , then?"

Jack beamed, and -- over Bootstrap's merry cry of, "I don't want to _know_!" -- said, "I reckon it needs a man with a good eye, and a good brain: and --"

"Was _that_ what it was?" enquired Shaftoe, leering.

"Perhaps you'll tell _me_ this riddle you've read so easily," interjected Enoch, before Jack could lunge across the table and give Shaftoe the answer he so richly deserved.

"Of course," he said, shooting Shaftoe a promissory look instead. He reached for the scrap of paper where he'd scribbled the puzzle. "'From my love's mouth --"

"No, Jack, that ain't it," said Shaftoe impatiently. "See, you _literary_ types, you're all so sure of your written words, ain't you?" He sat back, all smug, and Jack wanted to ... well, perhaps that wouldn't get the words out of him, but Jack'd enjoy it.

"You remember it all?" said Enoch, with surprise that Jack was sure was feigned.

Shaftoe rolled his eyes. "There's not that much of it, Enoch. 'From the mouth of my love's hopes to her sweet majesty,': that's the Esperance, right, down to Pointe Vierge. Show him, Jack, won't you? 'And the frank child's slow darling to his quick and singing, there when Phoebe calls no more.'"

"And, see -- oh, you'll have to take my word for it, Mr Shaftoe -- there's Anse de Canaries _here_ ," said Bootstrap in execrable French, pointing, "and Pointe Tortue _here_. Canaries and tortoises, and Jack reckons his old man had both."

Shaftoe leaned over the table, following Jack's finger as it drew imagin'd lines from north to south, and then from east to west. Jack was quite sure, never mind the lettered names, that Shaftoe'd recall the lay of each wriggly segment of coastline, and the rise of the mountain where the treasure lay hid.

"So, Mr Root: 'tis simple enough, see? X marks the spot, and we've only to shake this troublesome shadow of ours, and have a little poke around inland."

But Enoch Root was frowning, and stroking that beard of his.

"Out with it," demanded Jack, impatient, and not best pleased to encounter this mute criticism of his cleverness.

"You've forgotten Phoebe," said Enoch gravely.

"I never bloody _knew_ a Phoebe!" protested Jack, in principle. "An' who says elsewise is a liar."

Bootstrap and Shaftoe laughed: but Enoch only smiled that superior smile of his, and said, "Ah, but you _do_ know her, Jack: she's the sailor's darling, and you'd be lost without her."

"The moon?" said Jack. "What's the moon got to do with canaries, or virgins --" He slid a sly look at Shaftoe, here, and was kicked for his pains. "Or anything?"

"Precisely my point," said Enoch. "You've left her out: and if your grandfather -- who was a devious fellow, Jack, and not to be underestimated -- mentioned Phoebe, you may lay on it that the moon's a part of the riddle."

"Tides!" exclaimed Jack.

"You don't get tides inland," grumbled Bootstrap. "Not unless it's a bloody great river, and there's no such thing marked here."

"It may be," said Enoch delicately, "that one of your clews can be read another way. May I see?" And he leaned over the map, angling the stiff parchment towards the lanthorn.

"Best of luck with that," said Jack. "I'd best see if that Spaniard's still about: and, Mr Shaftoe?"

"Captain Sparrow?" said Shaftoe, all innocence, with that smile that showed the dimple in his cheek.

"That hand of yours needs tending: it's slowing you." Jack flicked a dirty look at sniggering Bootstrap. "I'll see you in my cabin, after."

And with that prospect to liven him, he went out into the storm.


	53. impofperversity | An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter Fifty-Two

  


Enoch was muttering, and peering, and generally behaving in a fairly stereotypical manner for an alchemist, despite the lack of evil-smelling ingredients in his immediate vicinity; he seemed quite utterly intent upon the map, and in ten minutes had not spoken to Jack, apart from one peremptory demand for another recitation. Jack decided that it was probably best to leave him to it, and it wasn’t as if he couldn’t fill in the time with a bit of enjoyable _reflection_ ; so he sat there, staring down at the map with unfocussed eyes, listening to remembered murmurs, feeling remembered caresses.

Time passed, and Enoch sighed; Jack sighed too, but for very different reasons. _I’ll see you in my cabin, after_ , whispered Jack Sparrow’s shade, looking all severe and serious, but with a crinkle at the corner of his eye that promised otherwise. Jack swelled where he sat, and winced a little at the rub of it; and there, that might be yet another thing that Enoch Root could medicate. His hand was throbbing, anyway; and Enoch seemed to be getting nowhere fast.

“Come on, Enoch,” said Jack, waving his bandaged hand under the man’s nose, “ain’t you going to put me out of my misery?”

“What? Oh, yes, by all means… though I haven’t quite…” mumbled Enoch, without looking up. Jack leant over and whipped the map away, rolling and re-presenting it to the frowning alchemist, and jumped to his feet.

*

He sat once more at Bootstrap’s tiny table, while Enoch tended to his hand; and wondered how to broach that other subject with his old friend. The brass-bound box sat open on the table between them, and Jack looked idly through it, as Enoch tore long strips from a piece of clean white linen.

“So, what is all this, Enoch? And where’d you gather it?”

“Mostly medications,” said Enoch, whose mind still seemed to be some way away, though his fingers were quick and busy. “Mostly utilitarian items. Though some are quite purely recreational, or at least entertaining.”

“I’m always up for a bit of entertainment,” said Jack. Enoch gave him a rather withering look, and muttered, “More so than you should be, I suspect.”

“What about something to… to salve a soreness, eh? These boots have got all hard with salt water,” Jack supplied inventively, “and they ain’t half rubbing on my anklebones.”

“D’you want me to take a look?”

“No, no… just your run-of-the-mill chafing,” Jack said. “Come on, what have you got?”

Enoch looked at him then, carefully blank-faced, and Jack fought a flush; ‘twas clear that he’d been seen through. But then the alchemist’s face cracked, and he laughed; rummaged in the box, and took out a bottle of some pale, rosy, viscous oil. “That should do you,” he said.

“Why thank you,” said Jack, and with a grin, “So does this go on my skin, or on the boots themselves?"

“I’m sure either one would feel the benefit,” said Enoch, and bent back to Jack’s hand.

The ship heeled over, suddenly, hit by a great booming wave, and the bottle clanked and rolled from the table. Enoch bent to pick it up; and Jack helped himself to diverse items from the box, at least some of which he hoped would be _entertaining_.

“Much obliged,” he said to Enoch, as the bottle was passed up to him. “And I should clarify, Enoch, that whatever you may think, I’m not about to put this to any _unnatural_ purposes.”

Enoch shrugged. “Do as you please, Jack, it’s none of my concern.”

“Well,” Jack blustered, “I’ll not have you thinking that I’m—”

Enoch held up a hand, and stopped him. “Jack, you are or you aren’t, I don’t much care either way. Surely I’ve known you for long enough to admire you for your qualities, and trust in your judgements. Well, most of them. It matters not to me, what you might care to do, or indeed not to do, with Jack Sparrow.”

Jack made a noncommittal noise; but that was interesting. Enoch truly seemed quite utterly unconcerned. And Bootstrap found it nothing but amusing. Cooper and Burton surely had no grounds for objection. And Martingale found it—well, actually, Martingale seemed to enjoy it more than was strictly necessary. It wasn’t that Jack was unduly influenced by the opinions of others; but still, it did make him think.

“There,” said Enoch. “Done, Mr Shaftoe. And I believe your Captain requested your presence, did he not?”

“Aye,” said Jack, rosy all over at the reminder of it.

At the door, he was stopped by Enoch’s voice. “Jack, show me what else you took?”

Ah, damnation. “What on earth do you mean?” he said, anyway, but Enoch was right beside him, and clearly knew better.

“Some of those items aren’t to be trifled with,” he was told, and he sighed, and pulled out the handful of paper twists and tiny vials.

“You can’t have that, or that, or that,” said Enoch, plucking them from his palm. “But you might find _that_ interesting. Useful, even, should our pursuers catch us, and swords be drawn.”

“Why?” asked Jack, peering at the black paper packet. “What does it do?”

“Why do you want to know? You took it regardless,” said Enoch, and closed the door in his face.

*

“Feeling better now?” came a low enquiry from the dim cabin, before Jack had even entered; and it gave him a tremor of victorious anticipation to realise that Jack Sparrow had so rapidly abandoned the call of duty on deck, to come down here and see him again.

“Much,” said Jack, and closed the door behind him. Sparrow stood beside the cot, peering through the porthole, and still wet from his time topside. Jack joined him, and they looked out together at the tossing grey waves and silvery rain.

“Does Mr Root have any better suggestions as to our destination?”

“No, but he’s certainly thinking on it.”

“Phoebe, my arse,” said Sparrow (Jack really wished he wouldn’t bring up his arse, at all, in any capacity; it was appallingly—deliciously—distracting an idea). “Those clews were perfectly solved, I say; who else but a Sparrow could’ve solved ‘em, eh?” He was clearly rather miffed at Enoch’s questioning his cleverness. Still, Jack had known Enoch Root for a long time, and had always known him for a terrifyingly astute fellow; he did not feel in a position to argue, neither to agree, and so kept his silence.

The ship lurched, and Jack stumbled; Sparrow shot out a hand to his waist, steadying him with a grin.

“Easy, there, Mr Shaftoe.”

“Talking of easy,” said Jack (rather astonished at his own brazenness); and he pulled out Enoch’s bottle. “I don’t know about you, Captain Sparrow, but I confess that for my part, our recent activities have left me a trifle tender in spots, and in need of some gentling.”

Sparrow’s smile grew wide and wicked. “How very _entrepreneurial_ of you, Jack, to’ve gathered… condiments.”

“I do my best.”

“And oh, your best is most delightful… p’rhaps we should, ah… attempt to assuage one another’s discomfort, eh?”

Jack grinned, and shrugged his way out of Sparrow’s borrowed coat, which was no easy task, since it was distinctly snug-fitting across the shoulders. Jack Sparrow stood close, oh very close, to Jack; and slowly licked him on the lips. Jack shivered, and heaved a great breath, and smiled. He pushed Sparrow’s coat off his shoulders, and it fell, heavy and damp, to the floor; he began to pluck at the other man’s shirt, suddenly desperate for that skin again.

“Jack,” Sparrow muttered, “I’ve got to warn you, we might be interrupted here. Our ship’s sailing fast through a building storm, ain’t it, and we’re being pursued; and what with me being, you know, _Captain_ and everything… well, chances are, mate…”

“Are you telling me to wait?” asked Jack, and he wrapped an arm around Sparrow’s waist, pulling him in close, so that his hard cock crushed into Sparrow’s abdomen, and the answering curve and push of Sparrow’s hips made him gasp.

“’M not so good at waiting,” Sparrow confessed, and fastened his mouth on Jack’s neck, burning hot. “And that oil, oh, it might feel powerful nice, Jack…”

Jack’s heart was beating like a drum, at the mere thought of Jack Sparrow’s oil-slicked hand upon him; and he fumbled with the buttons of Sparrow’s breeches, loosening them just enough for access (how strange, how very strange that he now knew just how many buttons that required). He unstoppered the bottle, and (clumsily, with his bandaged hand, but painlessly, thanks to Enoch’s ministrations) splashed his palm with its sweet-smelling contents, and Sparrow held out his own hand, biting at his bottom lip in a way that made Jack perfectly desperate to throw him down upon the floor and, and bite him, and crush him, and who knew what else; and then that hand slid greasy down his belly, and wrapped about him gently, and there was a moment’s sweet sting before the slippery glory of it all commenced and he groaned and laughed and gave it back to Sparrow, rolling his oiled thumb carefully over the head of Sparrow’s yard, faintly astonished to find dampness there already.

“Been thinking about something… pleasant?” he muttered, as Sparrow’s hand tightened around him, and began to stroke and slide; another hand came round behind his head, and pulled him in to a sudden, open-mouthed kiss, a greedy counterpoint to the gentle hand upon him. Jack made a muffled sound, and kissed back, and ah, it was hard not to clutch rough and forceful at the perfect, solid, slick flesh in his hand; touching Jack Sparrow’s yard, now, seemed the most obvious and natural thing that could be, and brought with it wonderful flashed memories of musky heat and Sparrow-moans, and how could Jack _not_ have wanted this, before; how? What strange ignorant place had he been inhabiting, where the shuddery delight of Jack Sparrow’s cunning ringed hand sliding up and down Jack’s prick, of Jack Sparrow’s dark wet mouth open to Jack’s tongue, where those were _not_ the most desirable of all possible things?

But Sparrow’s mouth pulled away from his, just a little, just a little, and he was talking again; oh, Jack was getting to like it when he talked, like it very very much, so he tried hard to focus at least _some_ of his attention away from his cock, and heard: “Been thinking about _you_ , Jack Shaftoe, and ‘pleasant’ is nothing but some faint sun-washed shadow of what you are; you’re all… all fire and push and sex to me Jack, I cain’t see you but want to be there naked with you, cain’t smell you but want to taste you…”

Jack felt dizzy, hearing Sparrow talk about him this way; it was all too strange, to hear himself spoken of with such urgency, such desire. Strange, yes, and yet so undeniably good, and oh Christ so was that hand, the crush and squeeze of it all slidy there. And Sparrow was still talking, though Jack had no idea how he could form sentences, not if he was feeling the same sensations as Jack was; which thought made Jack redouble his efforts in Sparrow’s breeches.

“And Jack, I cain’t hear your voice but want to make you howl… cain’t, cain’t feel your skin but want to feel it all spread out upon me as you fuck me Jack, and _don’t_ let your hand still just to hear me say it, Jack… you know I want it, and if you won’t then so be it, but just to think of it, oh Jack oh Jack the hot weight of you upon me and your cock, your cock… oh… shit…! _Jack_!”

Jack’d known it was coming, coming fast and hard; had rolled two fingers up to stop and catch it, and the pressure of it against them was astounding. ‘Twas that, and Sparrow’s words, and the open-mouthed gape of Jack Sparrow’s face, as much as it was the hand upon him, that sent him over the edge; sent him tumbling and rolling out of himself for long bright golden moments of immobility, biting at his lip and keening deep in his throat.

Sparrow leant hard against him, and they breathed together, hearts pounding, for a moment. Jack was still shuddery at the thought of what Jack Sparrow’d asked of him; and unsure, in himself, whether the thought of it’d been half the force behind his spending, or whether he’d managed despite it.

But he’d no more time to consider it; there was a sharp rap upon the door, and Sparrow’d called out no more than “Just a—” before it was opening, and Jack was springing back, hastily rearranging himself and wiping his hand on the tails of his shirt.

It was Enoch; and he entered with his head still lowered to the damn map, feeling about with one hand to close the door behind him. Sparrow was remarkably composed; he cleaned his palm on the side of his shirt, and picked up his damp coat and put it back on, covering the worst of the evidence.

“Mr Root? What can I do for you; whatever it might be, apparently it’s rather urgent?” he asked with grim politeness.

Enoch finally looked up, and took in the flush of their faces, their disarray, and he sniffed. “Glad to see you’re sorting out your… anklebones, Mr Shaftoe,” he commented, but was roundly ignored by both his listeners. “Anyway, Captain; I think I’ve solved your puzzle,” he continued, and spread the map on the table.

“Oh, and what did we get wrong then, eh? I’m sure you’re gagging to tell us,” said Sparrow rather gracelessly.

“Nothing, really,” said Enoch. “That is, you solved the _clew_ correctly; but, I suspect, applied it to the wrong _landmark_. Here, see this?” He pointed to a small island, several miles east of St Lucia. “This little rock is called ‘La Pucelle’. And you may not have known that for an archaic term for a maid.”

“Indeed I did not,” said Sparrow. “And yet, why should we be looking for _that_ virgin instead of the _other_? Correct me if I’m wrong, Enoch, but if we take a line from the Esperance to this La Pucelle, we don’t intersect with our west-east line at _all_. That’s the trick of it, see. The two lines have to _cross over_ one another, to mark the spot.”

“And if we merely _extend_ your west-east line?” said Enoch, demonstrating. “There, Captain; they cross right _here_. And do you see what they mark?”

Jack squinted, and there, under the pencil marks, could see a tiny line of dark, ragged waves, drawn no more than three-quarters of a mile off St Lucia’s coast. “A reef?” he guessed.

“Well done, Mr Shaftoe. A reef indeed; most of which, of course, is accessible only at low tide. When—”

”—when Phoebe calls no more,” said Sparrow, and he nodded. “I’m indebted to you, sir; and I ‘pologise for my lack of appreciation, beforehand. ‘Tis merely that, when you entered, I was… otherwise engaged, and not thinking about this particular issue.”

“I quite understand,” said Enoch smoothly. “So, if you’ll excuse me…”

“Oh, yes, by all means, off you go,” said Sparrow, and then added, “but take Mr Shaftoe with you, eh? I’ve to recalculate our course, now.”

Jack frowned, to be so cavalierly dismissed mere moments after spending in the dismisser’s hand; but Sparrow beckoned him close as Enoch departed, and licked at Jack’s ear, and said: “I’m afraid, Mr Shaftoe, I find you the most impossible distraction. I can’t conceive of attempting Mathematicks with you in the room. Go and check on our little follower, will you; and tell Bootstrap to be ready to raise more canvas. We’re going to use this storm for all it’s worth.”


	54. An Alchemical Prescription,  53

  
  
Alone once more in his cabin, Jack Sparrow took a moment to sit, eyes open but unseeing, and fix the memory of that deliciously expeditious interlude in his mind. He wanted never to forget the way that Shaftoe's clever fingers had come up to dam the flood, to catch him as he spilt: the way that Shaftoe's hand had slowed on his yard when Jack'd told how he longed for the weight and stretch and fill of Shaftoe on him and in him: the way, oooh, the way that Shaftoe'd started to stroke him again, harder and surer and sweeter, and the look of delighted anguish on Shaftoe's face at the mere _thought_ of fucking Jack.

That same mere thought was making Jack's blood stir afresh, though 'twas only minutes since he'd spent. Oh, Jack Shaftoe! He'd come so far, had Mr Shaftoe, from that firelit beach where he'd stood, proclaiming himself no man's catamite. Jack was proud of his part in that metamorphosis, and confident of being able to persuade him the rest of the way, or as near as made no odds: after all, Shaftoe had taken to it all so very enthusiastically.

Jack was not given to prayer, but he sent up a brief, emphatic request ("Soon!") to whatever deity might be eavesdropping: for his body craved the press of Shaftoe's weight, his skin itched to feel Shaftoe's own slide against it, and his conscious mind yearned for the captivating intensity of Shaftoe's gaze, the fascination on his face as he touched and was touched, the way his whole being focussed itself upon Jack when it was just the two of them, alone in that little sphere of intimacy. And Jack wanted, too, to bestow every delight he knew, one by one, upon Jack Shaftoe; for he'd never known anyone (save himself) who deserved delight so entirely.

"I shall have him," Jack promised himself; then, smirking, "one way or t'other." And, setting aside (with a supreme and admirable effort of will) further yearnings featuring Jack Shaftoe, he bent to the work of reckoning their course anew.

When he'd come in from the rain-lashed deck, the _Black Pearl_ had still been passing between Saint Lucia and Martinique, on an easterly course, running before the gale. They'd head south soon, towards that enciphered X: but that bloody Spaniard would be on their tail, and Jack did not care to lead 'em to this fabled treasure.

He spread out his grandfather's map, then reached for the French naval chart he'd acquired from an insufficiently wary courier. In general Jack preferred English cartography -- easier to read, for one thing -- but the French'd had the island for a while, and he was inclined to trust their survey.

They'd charted the whole long vicious crescent of the reef, arcing north around Pointe Tortue; the remnants of a larger peninsula that had crumbled into the sea? But no: according to the chart (which'd been intended for the French squadron at Martinique, so could be trusted) there was a deep channel between that and the shore. Jack didn't much care to bring his _Pearl_ to such a strait with an enemy in pursuit, whatever the state of the tide: but perhaps it could be turned to his advantage. For the Spanish ship must be defeated.

The pursuit was a nuisance in and of itself: not least, thought Jack, because it looked set to interfere with his ongoing programme of Carnal Delights. (There! Not five minutes, and he was thinking of Shaftoe again. It was as bad as a fever; as good as laudanum. Better.) But then, a little anticipation, a little restraint, might do them both the world of good. And the gold could wait, if the Spaniard could be persuaded to abandon the chase.

But if Shaftoe were right, and that was de Braxas' own banner fluttering on the Spanish ship, then someone had vowed vengeance on de Braxas' murderer. (Jack saw again, vividly, the beautiful monstrous sight of Shaftoe crouched over that gory corpse). And that made it ever so much more personal, and dangerous, and threatening. Evasion would not be enough: they must turn and fight.

He'd a plan, now, in his head (several plans, in fact, but most concerned Jack Shaftoe) and it wanted but a few observations before he could set it playing. Jack stood, retrieved his hat and his glass, and went out.

It was still warm and humid, and the rain was like a silver curtain. Shaftoe was at the taffrail, with Enoch Root. Jack felt the draw of him, like a strong current, but he resisted it, and squinted up at the sails. There was enough canvas aloft to carry them at a brisk pace, though by no means all that could be raised in this weather. Flight was still an option.

"Mr Turner!" he said, coming up to the helm. "Do I take it our Spanish friends are still with us?"

"Aye, Captain," said Bill, jerking his head towards the stern. "Holding their distance, they are. We can outrun --"

"I've a better plan than that," said Jack.

"Mr Shaftoe said --"

"We _can_ outrun 'em," said Jack, "but they'll still be behind us, following; and I've no intention of racing half across the ocean just to be rid of a pack of Spanish dogs."

"You're going to stand and fight?"

"No, Mr Turner," said Jack, grinning. "We're going to have a picnic." He paused to let Bill ridicule this remark, but Bill knew better: he merely gave his captain a narrow-eyed, suspicious look. "Now, mate, what state d'ye reckon the tide's at?"

"Not full," said Bootstrap, frowning. "But we're not close enough in to feel the force of it."

Jack whipped out his glass and set it to his eye: then had to wait until the billowing sheets of rain parted enough to let him sight the low, dark loom of Saint Lucia, off to the south-west now.

"Bring her round, Mr Turner," said Jack. "Set a course south, with a fair offing; that's a wicked coast, and there's wracks enough without our adding another." He stepped away from the helm, and began to call orders to the riggers and the topmen.

"South?" cried Jack Shaftoe, arriving at his side with haste that warmed Jack's heart. "What about the Spanish? Are we leading 'em straight to it?"

"Aye, Mr Shaftoe," said Jack, smiling his toothiest smile. "That's it exactly."

* * *

Jack Shaftoe, bidden on deck while Sparrow pored o'er his charts, was of a mind to protest. For one thing, it was a vile morning, rainy and gusty and altogether inclement. For another, he wanted -- and was quite disturbed to realise this -- to stay with Jack Sparrow, just to sit quietly and watch him as he muttered and scribbled and busied himself with the matter of their course.

"Nonsense," Jack told himself firmly.

"I beg your pardon?" said Enoch.

"Nothing," said Jack. "That is, I was just wondering who's sent this ship after us: for Don Alejandro," and he could feel his mouth twist sourly just speaking the name, "was most certainly dead."

"I have a suspicion," said Enoch, "that we'll find out soon enough."

"I thought the _Black Pearl_ was supposed to be fast?" said Jack.

"Fastest ship in the Caribbean," averred Bill Turner, at the helm. "Has the Captain decided if we're running or fighting?"

"Not yet," said Jack, "though I'm to tell you to be ready to raise more sail if need be. And Mr Root, here, has found another Virgin."

Bootstrap gave him a carefully blank look. Jack glared back, and hoped he wasn't blushing.

"So," he went on, firmly, "we've redrawn our lines, and we're bound for a slightly different location, though it's still to the east of the island." He squinted into the rain, trying to make out anything that was not water. Saint Lucia was a dark blur, well aft to starboard. He could not see the Spaniard at all.

"Have you a glass?" he enquired. "Thankee."

Jack went to the stern, right by the rudder-post, and propped his elbows on the taffrail to steady Bootstrap's glass. He longed for a moment to think; a moment in which Enoch Root's oversharp gaze was not bent upon him, a moment in which the tropical rain wasn't battering against his skull, a moment in which he could lie quiet and warm and think of Jack Sparrow. Not that Sparrow was a challenging subject on which to Philosophise: indeed, Jack was having the greatest difficulty in thinking of anything else. Oh Christ in Heaven, the way he'd looked at Jack as he spent, jetted, against Jack's hand; the way he'd looked, speaking of being fucked by Jack.

_That_ was a thought that perturbed Jack Shaftoe mightily, for it spoke to him of heat and lust and wildness, of a conclusion to all those half-formed phant'sies of throwing Sparrow down (Jack swelled anew, sorely, in his damp sticky breeches, remembering how Sparrow had felt, pinned against his cabin door, kissing him that first time) and biting and curving and ... _Oh think on't, think on't,_ urged the Imp, twining itself all Sparrowy 'round his neck, _think on being all in an' inside him! It shan't make you any less than y'are, my love, to give him what he wants and you want too! Oh the heat of 'im!_

"Mr Shaftoe?" said Enoch, and Jack realised he'd brought the telescope away from his eye.

"Thought I saw something," he lied, raising the glass once more.

And if the Spaniard were still there, what then? Jack had no especial urge to participate in a naval battle -- what was it Jack Sparrow'd said, "I don't want a pitched battle on my ship"? -- and since he was aboard the fleetest ship in the Caribbean, he saw no reason to do so. But would the Spanish captain simply give up?

Jack was sure, all of a sudden, that the other ship -- there, there she was, a distant pale blur in the rain! -- bore Don Esteban de Espinosa, miraculously spared by conflict and conflagration at de Braxas' house, and furiously intent on vengeance. De Braxas and he had been, after all, very -- unnaturally -- close. (Jack had been taught the word 'hypocrisy' by Enoch Root, following a discussion on the French: he gloried in his own hypocrisy now, for his own situation vis-à-vis Jack Sparrow was plainly quite different to anything that two Spaniards might get up to.)

Bloody Don Esteban! As if he hadn't done enough damage already. Always going after things he couldn't have -- Jack's arse, the _Black Pearl_ , this fabled treasure -- and getting in the way. For Jack felt quite sure that the Spaniard's thirst for vengeance would leave little time for all the things he wanted from Jack Sparrow; for pressing close, grinding and kissing and thrusting and spending. And Jack wanted that today, tonight, tomorrow.

Jack Shaftoe had never thought of himself as a vengeful sort. A childhood spent at the theatre, and in the muddy hovels of the Isle of Dogs, had enlightened him as to the sheer _effort_ involved in avenging each offence or insult offered by Fortuna and her allies. But his hand, whenever he thought of it (which was not that often, as his thoughts were mainly engaged by Jack Sparrow), still throbbed, and he hated de Braxas -- and thus, by extension, Don Esteban -- for visiting such injury and terror upon him; for unmanning him. Nothing could give him back his tenth finger: but a little hot-blooded mayhem, and bloodshed, and violence, now _that_ might salve his pride.

And then there'd be the treasure: Spanish gold, there for the taking, enough to take Jack back to England. Enough to set him up ...

Jack stood, rain running down under the collar of Sparrow's snug coat, staring out into the rain.

"Can you make them out, Jack?" said Enoch pointedly. "Or shall I take a look?"

"Here," said Jack, handing him the telescope. Behind him he could hear Jack Sparrow's voice, issuing a series of commands designed, no doubt, to amend their course or bearing somehow. Jack grinned: and then, interpreting the commands, stopped grinning.

"South? What about the Spanish? Are we leading 'em straight to it?" he demanded of Jack Sparrow, nearly losing his footing on the slippery deck.

"Aye, Mr Shaftoe," said Sparrow, with a smile like a shark's. "That's it exactly."


	55. impofperversity | An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter Fifty-Four

  


“Mr Turner, d’you think it possible to _pretend_ to go a little faster?” mused Jack.

Bill took offence at this, and began to object rather vociferously, claiming that he was working at a perfectly reasonable pace, and noting the number of hours in the past twenty-four when _he_ had been up on deck in the rain and wind while his _captain_ was tucked up tight in his cabin, up to all manner of no good; Jack was letting him rant, rather enjoying the tack he was taking (which served only to remind Jack of what it was to be belowdecks with Jack Shaftoe, taking advantage of his Authority to Delegate); but Shaftoe was reddening and scowling, and Jack took pity on him. Even though it was so enjoyable to watch. Positively selfless, he was becoming, where Jack Shaftoe was concerned.

“Enough, Bill, enough; I wasn’t talking of you, mate, but of our _Pearl_. If we were to raise more sail, d’ye think we could trim her poorly enough that it’d make little or no difference to our knots?”

“Can’t say as I’ve ever _tried_ to sail that badly,” admitted Bill, “but it can’t be that hard. Question is, what’s the point?”

“I want to make sure our followers know that we’re in a most terrific hurry. That we’re onto something awful big and exciting. And that we can’t possibly sail any faster; yet, I've no wish to lose 'em.”

“If you say so,” said Bill resignedly, and, giving the helm up to Jack, he went down and gave the orders, sending men up into the wet and wind-cracked rigging.

Jack stood stern-faced at the helm, feet planted wide, enjoying the whip of his hair in the wind and the warm touch of rain on his face; and Jack Shaftoe stood beside him, carefully not touching him, just standing there; all damp and handsome.

“Tell us about this picnic, then,” said Shaftoe.

“Ah, ‘tis not for you or I, I fear, Mr Shaftoe. Or, well, no, that ain’t exactly true. Jack Sparrow and Jack Shaftoe are going, but not _us_.” He grinned over his shoulder, revelling in riddling, and in the scowling sigh it brought him.

“What’s that supposed to mean, or is the Pox bothering you overmuch today?” said Shaftoe.

Enoch interjected then; “I suspect it means, Jack, that Captain Sparrow intends to create proxies for the two of you. To send them ashore with a party, perhaps to your originally plotted destination; to lure our pursuers inland; and this will allow you to search, undisturbed, at our new co-ordinates. Under cover of darkness, at low tide.”

“Yes, yes, very astute of you, Mr Root,” said Jack, a little peeved at the way Enoch Root had so quickly perceived the detail of it, and more peeved at the way Jack Shaftoe was listening to it with such concentrated interest; whose plan was it, after all?

“But why not just outrun ‘em, and lose ‘em?” said Shaftoe, blinking away raindrops; Jack, unthinking, took off his tricorne and handed it to him. Shaftoe grinned his thanks, and put it on; and Jack felt perfectly weak at the knees to see it. Oh, my, that was a fine hat, indeed, and he wondered whether it made _him_ look that good. He knew there was a reason why it was his favourite.

“Thing is, Jack,” he said, “this simply ain’t a big coastline. It’s perfectly clear to ‘em that our destination was the east coast of St Lucia, and we can’t lose ‘em, here; we can either run away from the place altogether, or we can face ‘em and fight. Or, we can trick ‘em and do as we intended in the first place, and _then_ run away. Me, I’m for the latter.”

“I’ve had a thought, though,” said Shaftoe; “Which is, that it might well be Don Esteban there on our tail. Did anyone see for sure whether he was killed? Oi, Bootstrap: did you see Espinosa die, back in Port Royal?”

This hadn’t occurred to Jack, and he wasn’t much enthused by the idea; Espinosa would be vengeful, surely, and unlikely to give up easy. So he was even less happy to hear Bootstrap say, “He went down with a blow to the head, Jack, and was dragged inside; but no, I can’t say for certain as it was a mortal blow.”

“It’s him,” said Shaftoe, bright eyes blazing with certainty. “And Jack, I’ve no wish to run away from that bloody man. I’ve a most definite wish for revenge, however. Ain’t all that business, ain’t all _this_ business”—he brandished his bandaged, fingerless hand—“ain’t it all that bastard’s doing, him with his damn ring, and his play-acting, and his perfidy?”

There was a set to his jaw that made Jack quiver hotly; made him flash, yet again, to the sight of Shaftoe knelt bloody and dreadful over de Braxas. It was awful to be so aroused by it; though his arousal was nothing to do with murderousness, Jack was sure. But oh! It was _everything_ to do with Jack Shaftoe’s wonderful savagery.

As if he could read all that on Jack’s face, Shaftoe took a step closer, and said, low and fierce, “Don’t you want revenge, Jack? For your father? And don’t I deserve revenge, for my hand?”

_Tenfold_ , Jack wanted to agree. But Shaftoe’s eyes were burning blue flame, and the air about him seemed to sizzle with a vicious energy, and Jack was almost afraid to unleash Jack Shaftoe on any man; and instead, he said, “We’ll do as we must, Mr Shaftoe; but I ain’t about to plan to murder.”

Shaftoe snarled mutely and turned away, and Jack fought his urge to put a hand out and turn him back. For a moment the air crackled with tension; but Enoch, to Jack’s relief, turned the subject.

“So, Jack; who d’you think should play our Captain in this little masque?”

Jack opened his mouth to reply, but Shaftoe gave a sudden chuff of laughter, instantly forgetting his irritation, and said, flushing, “Why Enoch, it’s obvious, ain’t it, who should be Captain Sparrow and myself?”

 

*

Sparrow gave him a quizzical look, and Jack answered it back with a warm one; his blood was still up at the thought of Espinosa behind them, and the sweet possibility of revenge, but he felt bad for his ill-humour of a moment past, and was content to turn his energies to some other end.

“Obvious, is it?” said Sparrow. “How’s that, Mr Shaftoe? What are your specific criteria, eh?”

“Well,” said Jack, looking consideringly skyward, “you’d have to be played by someone _shorter_ than myself, of course.”

“True,” said Sparrow. “And you’d have to be played by someone with, oh, how can I put this? Less… natural _elegance_ than myself.”

“You’d have to be played by someone all dark, and thin.”

“You’d have to be played by someone all straw-headed and unkempt.”

“You’d have to be played by someone who can sashay along like a harbourside doxy.”

“You’d have to be played by someone who walks, not to mention dresses, like... like an argument.”

“An argument? What’s that supposed to mean?” said Jack, unable to hold back laughter for one more moment.

“Actually, since all your clothing is _borrowed_ , you dress like someone _else’s_ argument,” said Sparrow, staring at Jack’s half-fastened shirt and too-tight breeches as though he wanted few things in life more than the opportunity to remove them immediately. “But, more important, Mr Shaftoe; more important, surely, would be the natural _relationship_ between these two actors, and whether they could relate to one another in the appropriate manner, to be mistaken for our good selves.” He gave Jack a blackly wicked look, then, and his tongue darted out and licked the rain from his lip; and Jack’s jaw tightened, and his blood surged.

“Enough!” cried Bill, exasperated at having to watch his companions taunt each other so. “Cooper! Burton! Up here, now!”

Sparrow laughed, and Jack lied, “I was thinking more of Felton for you, actually.”

“Say that again,” said Sparrow, “and I shall send _you_ to play you, and take Burton with me instead.”

“Take me where?” said Burton, pounding up the stairs, Cooper behind him.

“Ashore,” said Jack shortly. He pulled Cooper forward, and walked around him, muttering; took off his own coat, and bade the man put it on. Stood behind him and took the leather tie from Cooper’s hair, unplaiting it with quick fingers and then messing and teasing it into a damp rat’s nest while Burton laughed uncomprehendingly and Cooper scowled and batted at his hands.

Jack took Sparrow’s tricorne from his own head, and put it upon Cooper, then stood back with his arms folded. Something was still utterly unconvincing; not that Cooper, dark and narrow though he might be, was ever going to be half of what Jack Sparrow was. But perhaps…

“Here, Jack,” he said, and made Sparrow stand still for a moment, and close his eyes. Jack ran a finger along each closed eyelid, and then smeared the darkness onto Cooper; and that helped a little.

“Why, Ben!” said Burton, rather admiringly, “that ain’t half bad, you know.”

“Why,” said Cooper, ignoring this, “am I being dressed as you, Captain?”

“So you can confuse the Spaniards, of course. I want you and Mr Burton to take a party ashore, and make for the slopes of La Sorcière, and I want them to follow you; and you shall lead them a merry dance, et cetera, until you see a signal from me, and then you’ll lose ‘em, and make haste back to the ship; and meanwhile, we’ll’ve found my granddaddy’s treasure, and then we’ll away. Simple, eh? And as for you, Mr Burton, or should I say Mr Shaftoe… let’s see…”

“I’ll go and get a bandage,” said Enoch, and disappeared below.

Burton’s hair was already pulled back, much the same as Jack’s, though longer; Sparrow took a knife from his belt, grabbed the queue from behind, and sliced it off halfway down its length without a second thought. Burton made a strangled sound of protest, but it was far too late. Sparrow raised his hand and opened his fingers, and the hair was plucked away by the wind.

“Burton’s a lot _bigger_ than Shaftoe,” said Cooper critically, with a sly glance at Burton that made Jack roll his eyes. ‘Twas undeniable though; the lad had hefty shoulders, and a great barrel of a chest.

“Can’t do anything about that,” said Sparrow briskly. “But, hmm, clothing; the Spaniards know you’ve none of your own, Mr Shaftoe, and are prancing about in your captain’s; pray trade with Mr Burton, and we’ll at least give the impression of a fellow wearing another’s clothes.”

His face was as neutral as could be, but Jack could read the light behind his eyes, and was warmed and thrilled by it; although his mouth opened in automatic argument, no words came out, and he realised with delicious dismay that he wanted— _wanted_ —to stand here and bare himself before Jack Sparrow, and watch those black eyes darken and flame.

Burton was saying something, and Cooper laughing, but Jack paid it no mind; he shrugged, as if this suggestion were no concern at all, and began to slowly pull the wet shirt up his chest. Letting his fingertips linger on rain-cool skin; happily aware of the stretch of muscle over ribs, of the very moment when the shirt raised over his (hardened) nipples, of the force of Sparrow’s gaze on him. It was the oddest thing, to be able to use his body in this way; odd, and powerful, and _good_ in a way that brought him not pride, as such, but a most certain pleasure.

“Here you go,” came Burton’s voice, and with a wet slap of linen against Jack’s belly the larger shirt was thrown his way. “But Jack, I won’t fit them breeches, I swear.”

Sparrow blinked and sighed, and considered this, but had to agree that the chances were low, given the disparity between Burton’s great meaty thighs and Jack’s, long and lean. Enoch returned, giving a twist of eyebrow at the general state of undress prevailing on the quarterdeck, and made Burton bend his smallest finger down before wrapping it tight, in a large and overly-obvious bandage.

“Right,” said Sparrow, standing back and motioning Cooper and Burton forward. “Show us, then, how you’ll be us.”

At a push from Burton, Cooper shuffled forward for inspection; but Jack cried, “No, no, Cooper! Like this!” and made a rapid promenade about the quarterdeck in a cruelly exaggerated version of Sparrow’s swaying walk. Burton burst out laughing, and Jack winked at Sparrow. Cooper looked askance at his captain, to see whether this was an acceptable jest; and when Sparrow just shook his head and grinned, he did his best to emulate Jack (and it wasn’t a bad best; Jack suspected that most of this company were fairly adept at the Sparrow-walk, it was surely too good a taunt to ignore). More laughter; and emboldened, Cooper slurred mockingly, “Come on then, Mr Shaftoe; come and walk up here, with me.”

Burton folded his arms and scowled and muttered, “I ain’t going nowhere with _you_ , mate;” Jack just stared at him, confused, until Sparrow and Bootstrap let out howls of delighted laughter and he realised that Burton was making fun of him. He frowned, and Sparrow pointed at him, and Bootstrap clapped and doubled over laughing, and even bloody _Enoch_ was grinning.

“Oh, go on,” drawled Cooper. “You know you like me really.” And he winked at Burton.

Jack was struck silent, and horridly fascinated to see what the response would be. Christ, what were they thinking of him?

Burton gave a broad grin and said, “Are you sure I can’t just set something on fire, eh, to entertain you?”

Cooper, deep in his playacting now, sidled closer, looking up at Burton from under the brim of his hat. “You already have set something afire, mate,” he muttered, smiling, and ran a finger down Burton’s chest.

Oh, God, what, what would… ?

Burton shoved Cooper backwards, against the helm, and crushed him there, and leant over him, and Jack could see that the lad was half in play, and half madly aroused by Cooper; Burton said nothing, but stared hard at Cooper, and leaned closer, slowly closer, and Jack watched in frozen fascination to see the kiss that would result.

“Yes, well, I think we get the idea,” said Sparrow loudly, and clapped his hands, and Burton stepped back and let Cooper free.

Sparrow turned to Jack, hair whipping in the wind, skin wet and shining, shirt clinging and half-transparent, grin as bright and wicked as ever. “What d’you think, Jack?” he asked. “Can they pull it off?”

Jack swallowed, and tried to meet Sparrow’s eye without too great a flush, of shame and desire both.

But what was he to say? If he said yes, it was a free admission to all of the state of things; if he argued, then he denied Jack Sparrow and all that had been—might yet be—between them. There was no right answer; no _safe_ answer; and instead he shrugged, and turned away, and hid his confusion in putting on Burton’s cold, wet shirt.


	56. An Alchemical Prescription,  55

  
  
Christ, it was hard to keep the smile on his face, to turn away from Shaftoe as casually as Shaftoe'd turned from him. That shrug alone (oh, the way that Shaftoe's collarbones hollowed with it!) was enough to make Jack's pride flare, to wrench blasphemies and tantrums from him. But he had a reputation to maintain, and so he battened down his temper and grinned, sharp and nasty, as though he was simply teasing Shaftoe anew. Damned if he'd show the sting of that cold-shouldering to Bootstrap -- who was looking at Jack, damn him, with the beginnings of sympathy -- or to Burton, standing there at a loss, clearly unsure whether to laugh at Jack Shaftoe or at his captain.

Shaftoe was struggling into that wet rag of a shirt, but Jack refused to watch. Instead he turned to Burton and Cooper, throwing his hands wide in approval. "A fine performance you've given us, gentlemen!" he cried. "Quite fetching, Mr Cooper, if I do say so meself. And you've a great theatrickal career ahead of you, Mr Burton, if you ever decide to pack in piracy and make a life ashore."

Burton grinned, and blushed -- Jack refused to think of Shaftoe blushing, or of the delightfully many and varied ways in which this response could be elicited -- and muttered something.

"A smidgeon more sullen, Mr Burton, eh?" said Jack. "Got to stay in character, after all. And don't get too carried away: this ain't a license to debauch yourselves ashore, all right? You just have to confound our Spanish friends, and make enough of a scene that they won't bother paying attention to those of us still resident on board."

"Aye, captain," said Cooper, grinning. The tricorne suited him, though not as well as it'd suited Jack Shaftoe.

Shaftoe, in those perilously tight breeches (perilous as far as their effect on Jack went, anyway) and Burton's tatty, soaking shirt, was standing scowling at them all, arms folded across his chest in a pose that brought Burton's performance inescapably to mind. His frown, and that defensive stance, were like spice and wager rolled into one: they made Jack's heart leap with devilry, and the renewed impulse to claim Jack Shaftoe body and soul.

Jack had already made himself a promise concerning Jack Shaftoe. "You shall have him," he'd vowed to himself: and he _had_ , all bar a few remaining acts which Jack was quite sure (never mind this minor volte-face) would be forthcoming with minimal persuasion. Now, in the dark privacy of his own thoughts, he made himself another vow, the meat of which was, "Jack Shaftoe shall show his heart -- nay, boast of what we are together -- before the whole company, in time."

Though Jack did not care, just yet, to put a name to what lay between them. Lust, for sure; liking, at least; and, at this precise moment, a healthy dose of irritation.

"So shy, Mr Shaftoe," he said now. "I'm most _awf'lly_ sorry if we've offended your delicate sensibilities. P'rhaps we should return our attentions to our Plan, eh?"

Shaftoe nodded, grudgingly, and Jack beamed at him: then, turning slightly, winked at Bootstrap and Enoch. Bootstrap grinned: Enoch cast his eyes briefly heavenwards. And Jack Shaftoe, discovering himself the target of Jack's humour again, glowered all the more.

Lovely.

* * *

Jack Shaftoe wanted, more than anything, to absent himself from the merriment on the quarter-deck: to regain his equilibrium, and forget the way that Burton'd stared at Cooper -- Cooper all smeared and ruffled like a cheap copy of his captain -- and, eventually, to look Sparrow in the eye again and smile, all cool and distant and unaffected. But running away, tempting as it was, wouldn't help: no doubt it would only amuse them more. And besides, there were a limited number of places to run to, on board the _Black Pearl_ as she raced (perhaps not quite as swiftly as she might've done) before the storm, before the Spaniard, towards the Aztec treasure that (Jack assured himself) was the sole reason he was still on board.

But oh, the hot red beat of his heart, like a hammer on an anvil, as Burton'd shoved Cooper back against the rail and leaned in to kiss him. Oh the scarlet heat in Jack's belly (and lower, though he fervently hoped there was no sign of it beneath these tight, rain-sodden breeches) at the sight of Cooper poised against the helm, ready to arch up into the taller man's embrace. God, Jack wanted that: wanted it from Sparrow, wanted it for himself. And the thought of what these two did together, in the dark below decks -- of what Burton did to Cooper, Jack was sure of it -- made him crave Sparrow's embrace, and made his breath come faster at the thought of having Jack Sparrow arching against him.

Not before the whole company, though: never that. Bad enough that Sparrow'd mocked him. The redness in Jack's heart was still spilling out (he could feel it) onto his face. And, uncannily, he could feel his brother Bob's gaze on him.

Jack glanced around at those of the company -- Bootstrap, Stone, Burton and Cooper, Smith, and Enoch Bloody Root, the source of this whole damned business -- who'd gathered in hope of entertainment. No Bob, of course, because Bob was thousands of miles away in Europe, on dry land, no doubt doing something worthy and sensible and dull: and none of the audience wore a sour look, or a disapproving air, or a smile that sprang from anything save genuine amusement. None of 'em except Jack Shaftoe himself.

Bloody hell, he was turning into Bob.

Jack thought, bracingly, of Don Esteban. _His_ fault, for sure, that Jack was here now, a butt of coarse jests (never mind the underlying verity of 'em) and lewd posturings. If Don Esteban were indeed on that ship, as Jack suspected, he deserved everything that was coming to him. Jack's mind presented him with a flickering series of images: Don Esteban raising a sword and Jack beating it down, easily and fiercely, with his own; Don Esteban cowering, face twisted with fear, begging for mercy; the sound of Jack's own laughter at such cravenness. _I ain't about to plan to murder,_ Sparrow'd said: but Jack was not prey to any such inhibitions, and his finger throbbed as a reminder of what he owed the Spaniard.

Fortified by this hyper-violent reverie, Jack managed a smile. "So what's this plan of yours?" he said, "I'm sure Mr Burton and Mr Cooper can provide plenty of _wholesome_ entertainment for whoever's on that ship. But what of the rest of us, eh? How shall _we_ while away the hours?"

"Well, Mr Shaftoe," said Sparrow. His gaze on Jack was cooler than it had been, for which Jack gave thanks: his thoughts were still a confused stew of lust and disgust and aggression, and he did not require any further provocation. "There's too many of us up here: two Shaftoes and two Sparrows. Too much of a good thing, eh?"

Jack gave him a withering look, and Enoch raised his eyes towards the grey sky again. Bootstrap, used to this, just looked resigned.

"I reckon we'd better make ourselves scarce," Sparrow went on blithely, "to avoid any misunderstandings. Mr Turner, keep an eye on," he gestured, "your Captain, eh? Mr Cooper, you have the helm."

"But where're we bound, Captain?" cried Cooper.

"Round the headland," said Sparrow, jerking his head towards the green loom of island ahead of them, "and then sharp in around the reef: Bill, you've studied the chart? Good. Now, Jack: let's make our true selves scarce."

Jack's heart thumped in his chest: but when Sparrow beckoned him, he went.

* * *

Jack headed downstairs, vividly aware of Shaftoe just behind him, and at the foot of the companionway he turned abruptly, and prodded Shaftoe hard, just above his heart, with one long finger.

"What's the matter, eh, Mr Shaftoe? Didn't care for Burton's rendition of your character?"

Shaftoe's hand came up, quick as fire, to grasp Jack's own: Jack's heart leapt at his touch.

"They all think --"

"What do _you_ care what they think?" demanded Jack. You, you gorgeous forthright lustful laughing man? You, who put your mouth to me without my asking, as though you'd read my most delirious hopes; you who kissed and thrust and licked and sucked and ...

But Shaftoe still would not quite meet his eyes, and Jack changed tack. "There ain't no one here now," he said, swaying closer. In the dim light of the passageway, he could see the dark circles of Shaftoe's nipples under the thin wet cloth, and feel the heat off him. "No one _thinking_ anything."

"Actually," said Shaftoe, "that's not precisely true, Jack."

"Is it not?"

" _I'm_ thinking," said Shaftoe, edging closer. He was smiling again, and oh, the jut of that crooked incisor: it made Jack want to be bitten. To bite.

"Really?" he said, faintly.

"Thinking ... thinking of how you could make it up to me, for laughing, up there, when they made us out to be ... to be ..."

"To be what, Mr Shaftoe?" Jack decided it was safe, now, to reach out, to put both his hands on Shaftoe: to feel Jack Shaftoe quiver at his touch, and push into his hold. "To be set afire by one another? To want to touch, and kiss, and --"

"Shut up," growled Shaftoe, and immediately robbed Jack of the chance to do so voluntarily, with a fierce, silencing kiss. Jack gave himself happily over to it, for _this_ was what he'd thought of, watching Cooper swish and sway on deck, watching Burton give him that same greedy, intent look that Jack Shaftoe had turned on Jack time and again: oh, a pretty play all right, but a pale shadow of _this_ , this shared fire. Set something afire, indeed! Couldn't have scripted it better myself, thought Jack smugly, with that minuscule portion of his brain that was not engaged in the kiss and its attendant explorations.

From above, at the open top of the stairs, came a markedly deliberate cough: and Shaftoe pulled away so abruptly that Jack heard the dull thud of skull against hull.

* * *

"What is it _now_?" snarled Sparrow, his hands tightening on Jack's arms as Jack twitched with the urge to flee discovery.

"My apologies," said Enoch, though he did not sound especially repentant. He began to descend. "Mr Turner needs another look at that chart: says he's not confident of the reef."

Sparrow rolled his eyes. "All yours, mate. I'll just, er, be checking the armoury, eh?" He began to draw Jack with him, aft, away from the cabin: away, damn it, from the last faint hope of _privacy_.

Jack's Imp bounced and muttered on his shoulder, and he resisted Sparrow's pull. "I ain't going nowhere with you, mate," he declared.

Oh, delicious, to see Jack Sparrow open-mouthed and silent for even a moment: but Enoch was chuckling as he went past them both, and Jack couldn't hold back his own grin. Sparrow's eyes narrowed, impossibly black and wicked, as he recognised Burton's words; he leant in, leering. "You know you like me really." Then, straightening, and tugging at Jack's arm again, "B'sides, I think I can safely say I've something _int'resting_ to show you."

Jack's blood surged at the thought, as furious and fast as the rushing stormy ocean beyond the hull: and he went eagerly after Sparrow, down a ladder, into the depths of the ship where the weapons and powder were stored.

It was dark, with just a glimmer of light from the open door: only a fool would bring a naked flame here, and neither of them had stopped to collect a lanthorn. Jack could scarcely see Sparrow's taunting grin, but he knew it was there, could feel it against his own mouth as Sparrow tilted his head and kissed Jack again, there in the doorway, pushing him back against the jamb until Jack came to himself and caught Sparrow, turned him and pressed him -- all sinewy and warm -- against the copper sheathing of the bulkhead.

"And what'll you do down here, eh, Mr Shaftoe?" he challenged, mouth no more than an inch from Jack's own, cock nudging against Jack's thigh, pulse throbbing under Jack's hand. "What'll you do, now there's no one looking, not even myself?"

"What'll you _show_ me, with no light to see?" demanded Jack, rather proud of himself for thinking such a thing when all the blood in his body had rushed south to his prick. He got his hand between them, groaning at the brush of his own fingers, and pressed his palm against the long line of Sparrow's cock. Not enough, not enough: he had to have skin, had to touch ...

"I swear you'll notice it," said Jack Sparrow: and, oh, his mouth, descending, lips throat heart navel; his hand, unbuttoning deft in the dark; his mouth, his mouth, and Jack could do nothing but throw back his head, bite his own lip 'til he tasted blood, and think (when he could think again) on his revenge.


	57. impofperversity | An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter Fifty-Six

  


He’d no shame, had Jack Sparrow; no fear of showing his desires this way, and he’d knelt freely before Jack, and visited such a glory upon him that even now, several minutes after cursing and crying and spending, Jack trembled still and his breath rasped in the darkness as he leant back against the cool bulkhead. Eyes open or closed, it made no difference down here. He could not see what Sparrow was doing, still down there on his knees, but oh, he could feel it; patient gentling hands, callused fingers and hot dry palms mapping the muscles and lines of Jack’s thighs, hips, arse. Soft lips on his belly, holding so still on his skin that Jack could feel the pounding of his own pulse against them.

This apparent affection was even harder to ‘compass than the fierce urge that had preceded it. ‘Twas one thing to have this need for release, and quite another to… well, to…

“Get up,” said Jack, a little more roughly than he’d intended to. Sparrow stilled for a second, and then did so. Jack bent to pull up his breeches, struck his forehead on Sparrow’s shoulder in the dark, and swore.

“Here,” said Sparrow, an edge of laughter in his voice, “won’t you let me kiss that better, Jack?”

“It’s fine,” said Jack, doing himself up; he heard the shortness of his tone, and felt bad for it. What had Jack Sparrow done, but show some fondness to him? Jack knew he was being churlish. Better not to think on gentle kisses and all their impossible implications. Better to let himself indulge in that fierce lust instead; for that much, down here in the creaking solitary dark, he could admit to. And there before him, though he could not be seen, was Jack Sparrow, still unsatisfied, still wanting, all ready for (and unarguably deserving of) reciprocation. The thought of _that_ stopped Jack’s heart from slowing back to rest, and made him reach out in the blackness, till his hands met Sparrow’s muscled waist.

Jack pulled him close, and muttered, “I’d say you’ve a problem that needs _kissing better_ more than anything I might be suffering from.” He slid a hand against the silky skin of Sparrow’s belly, and further, down, over the hot solidity of his erection. Sparrow’s breath hitched and he pressed against Jack, and bit at his earlobe; Jack shivered at the hot roar of breath in his ear, and began to fumble at Sparrow’s breeches, and then—wasn’t that—

“They’re calling for you,” he said, raising his dark-blind eyes to the deck above.

“Let them call,” said Sparrow, and he thrust against Jack’s hand, and put his tongue in Jack’s ear; but Henry’s voice came again, closer, and Sparrow butted his head against Jack’s shoulder and groaned in frustration.

“Not now, not _now_ …”

“Must they have you? Can you not…?” whispered Jack, his good hand working its way into the hot confines of Sparrow’s clothing.

“I’m sure if I _explained_ the situation to ‘em,” Sparrow muttered, “If I told them that I was mere moments away from having Jack Shaftoe’s kiss upon me, of having the unutterable joy of pushing my cock into his burning clever mouth and having him suck me down and—” The rest of his sentence disappeared into a warm, gasping kiss on Jack’s neck, as Jack flushed hot at the words, and then cold.

Cold. That was the second time that Sparrow had spoken of telling everything to his men; the words touched him at the very core of his misgivings, and even though he knew, really, that it was nothing but fevery desire talking, he grabbed Sparrow’s shoulders and held him away, at arm’s length. “You’ll tell them no such thing, damn it,” he said brusquely.

As soon as the words were out he wished them back; he could feel Sparrow stiffen, and there was a horrid little pause before the pirate said, “For Christ’s sake, Jack, don’t you know I wouldn’t—but even if I did, what are you so fucking afraid of?”

“I’m not _afraid_ of any bloody thing,” Jack spat back, “but I’ve no wish to be known as a fucking sodomite, neither.”

Another dark and horrid silence, and Henry’s voice again: “Captain! Captain Sparrow, you down there?”

Sparrow twisted away from Jack’s hands. “Open your eyes, Jack Shaftoe,” he said, his voice cold and dismissive. And then, clear and loud, “I’m on my way, Mr Henry. With you in a moment.” And he was gone.

Jack slumped back and scowled. Smacked his good fist hard against the door jamb, and immediately regretted it.

*

Toying with the idea that he might somehow be recognisable from the deck of the Spanish ship (and also to immerse his thoughts in something other than the impossibly annoying Jack Shaftoe) Jack tied his hair back, and borrowed Joe Henry’s knitted cap, pulling it down low over his forehead. At the foot of the companionway he took off his boots, and he affected a limp as he went barefoot up on deck.

They’d rounded the headland, which brought them some relief from the wind, and were coming in towards a wide bay, above which the looming bulk of La Sorcière, steep and conical, was silhouetted against the scudding grey clouds. The _Black Pearl_ was even now angling through the gap in the reef, where waves crashed against jagged rocky teeth; Bill’d handled it ably, and Jack made a note that he must thank him for it, and show some decent appreciation for the load that Bill’d taken on his uncomplaining shoulders whilst Jack had been otherwise engaged with Jack Shaftoe.

Well, perhaps that wouldn’t be such a problem, looking forward; Jack was not sure how it’d happened, that Shaftoe’d gone from moaning Jack’s name and clutching at his hair to snapping at him as though Jack were some tupenny whore, but he had, damn him. Jack had forgiven him for the earlier snub, in front of his crew; could understand it, in a fellow who was but lately come to the pleasures of another man; but down there, in the pitchy dark, with no witness save Jack himself (who, what’s more, had all but laid his feelings out for Shaftoe to see, wanting to give him reassurance, wanting to make him understand that this was a thing of _substance_ )—down there, he’d done it _again_. And it was more than Jack’s pride could stand. If Jack Shaftoe did not want him, clear and true—well, he was damned if he would beg.

It was good to be back on deck, in the clean air and rain and wind, and Bill came to meet him as he emerged.

“Jack, we’re nearly—are you all right, mate?”

Jack tried to clear the anger from his face, and smiled tightly. “’Course I am, why wouldn’t I be. So, nearly there? Good job, Bill, and my thanks; you’re a fine sailor, you are.”

Bill looked rather confused by this sudden burst of unsolicited appreciation. He shrugged it off, and said, “It’s getting late; I wanted to ask you, should we be looking to anchor, and set off at first light?”

“No, no, no,” said Jack. “Tides, Bill, tides. Low tide’ll hit, I’d say, an hour after sundown; by then, we have to be on the reef. So Cooper and Burton’ll take their party off as soon as we’re anchored; take her to the middle of the bay, due east from the mountain. Then they can arse about on the beach till the Spaniards catch up, and be seen to disappear inland.”

“As you say, Jack. I’ll organise the boat.”

Enoch Root sidled up, with a knowing smile that Jack wanted to slap from his face.

“Didn’t expect to see you up here quite so soon,” said the alchemist.

Jack threw him a blazingly irritated look, and said, “Captain, ain’t I. Needed when I’m needed.”

“I don’t think you’re needed any more,” said Enoch, clearly taking in Jack’s mood, and glancing about the busy deck.

“What’s it to you, Mr Root, whether I’m here, or anywhere else? Mind your own business.”

“Jack Shaftoe is my business. It’s my doing—my _fault_ , you might say—that he’s here to begin with.”

“Mr Shaftoe’s a grown man, he can take care of himself.”

“Oh, indubitably. But I’m fond of him, Jack; I should hate to see him… hurt.”

“If Jack Shaftoe’s hurting, it’s his own choice to do so,” said Jack shortly.

Enoch gave him a searching look, and said, “A stubborn man may need time to adjust himself to new circumstances.” It really was most annoying, Jack reflected, the way Enoch Root seemed to understand every single thing that was going on around him.

“Jack Shaftoe _adjusts_ like the wind, when he wants to. And if he don’t want to…” said Jack, and he shrugged, and let the thought hang there.

*

Jack had skulked about in the darkness for long enough, arguing with himself and being poked and berated by his Imp, who—having doubtless been responsible for his contrary attitude in the first place—was now filled with perverse annoyance.

_Jack-Jack take it back, it’s chilly blue wi’out him here and warming us with eyes and words and pretty! Take it back I say!_

Take what back? That I’ve no wish to be known a sodomite? But it’s the truth of it.

_Known by who and who, and words is all that is, and what’s a nasty spitty skinny word held ‘gainst his goldy pleasure, nothing’s what it is, hollow nothing and empty sound and SparrowJack ain’t empty, he’s full and brimful too and wants to be fuller eh Jack eh my love! Eh!_

Jack tore his thoughts away from that particular concept as the bulkhead behind him thudded loudly and shuddered against his back. A boat was being lowered. Good, perhaps this endless sailing and talking was coming to an end; perhaps they were, finally, going to get on with this.

He didn’t particularly want to face Sparrow, right now; but neither did he wish to hide. And damned if he was going to miss the chance to go and find this supposed treasure, having come this far. He sighed, and grasped the ladder with his good hand.

*

“Stay out of sight, Mr Shaftoe,” came Sparrow’s voice, before Jack’d even stood upon the deck; so he crouched low, and made his way to the shelter of the gunwale. Peering over, he saw the _Pearl_ ’s cutter, tossed by angry grey waves, making her laden way to the beach. Sparrow was perched above Jack on the first yardarm, barefoot and not much recognisable under a villainous striped cap, his ornamented hair all tied and tidied. He did not so much as glance at Jack, but peered at the boat, and then at the Spanish warship a half-mile back, which was taking in canvas and slowly negotiating the reef.

“They’ve caught up,” said Jack; and he put out a little conversational olive branch, saying, “Are they not likely to fire ‘pon us?”

“It’s possible,” said Sparrow, still not looking his way. “But dark’s coming down; ‘twould be a foolish time to start a quarrel, ‘specially when they can see that we’ve business elsewhere.”

The boat rode a last great swell of surf, and made the beach; small figures of men jumped out, and dragged it up above the waterline. Jack could see Cooper, waving his arms about; Burton, standing stoic, staring at a map. There were a good twenty in the party, and well armed. Sparrow had not stinted in his Distraction.

“And now?” said Jack. “What next?”

“We wait,” said Sparrow. “We make sure that our Spanish friends are—in fact, we need wait no longer. Oi, Bootstrap! Look there! They’re readying a boat!” As he spoke, he swung and tumbled down the ratlines; and then pounded barefoot up onto the quarterdeck.

Jack watched with hungry eyes, utterly frustrated by the contradictory feelings that flared so within him. He could not see Jack Sparrow, running surefooted on the slippery black deck, without wanting… oh, so many things, to kiss him and crush him and push against him and watch him laugh and groan and shiver, yes those things; but also, more, to lie close beside him and sleep deep and safe, and to hear his wicked growling voice tell tales of wild unlikely adventure, and to tell his own in return, and to wake in that warm buttery morning sunshine with Jack Sparrow twined about him, smelling of sleep and sweat and sex and rum.

And yet, and yet… The foreignness of it, the deep embedded feeling that it was not how it should be, the surety of other men’s reactions, the ingrained habits of a busy lifetime; those reservations would not leave him in peace.

Sparrow was talking with Bootstrap; then he waved another fellow over to take the helm, and descended belowdecks. Still he did not look Jack’s way, not once; and Jack realised how much he’d taken those warm, invitational glances for granted, and assumed they were always his. It was colder, without them, and he squeezed his eyes shut, just for a moment.

There came the noise of a clearing throat, and Bootstrap was standing over him.

“What?” said Jack, gruffly.

“We’re makin’ ready for the second party to depart,” said Bill. “As soon as it’s dark. Having another look at the map. Planning it out.” His expression said that he didn’t think too much of Jack Shaftoe, at this particular time, and Jack wondered what bloody Sparrow’d said.

“Off you go then,” said Jack, affecting the tone of someone who’d never expected to have any part in that in the first place.

“I’m to bring you down,” said Bootstrap, blankly, and then: “Jack wants you.”

It wasn’t clear whether that sentiment was couched _deliberately_ in such provocative terms; but it had the effect, regardless. The Imp bounced and spun on the rain-swept wood, and squeaked, _He wants us, yes he does o yes and can’t be wi’out us now, see?_

“For the search party,” said Bootstrap.

“For the search party,” echoed Jack, for the benefit of the Imp; and he followed Bootstrap down, out of the grey light of the dying day.


	58. An Alchemical Prescription,  57

  
  
The storm had passed and the sea was calmer now, though the sky was still veiled by heavy grey clouds. Somewhere above them the sun had, presumably, set, and a dull metallic twilight was creeping over the bay. Jack Sparrow kept a careful eye on _La Furia_ \-- the Spanish ship had moored close enough for him to read the freshly-gilded name on her stern as she swung round on the ebb -- and on the beach, where the two boats lay empty, far above the white line of surf.

There was a guard on board the _Furia_ , of course, but they didn't seem especially bothered by the activities of those who'd been left behind on the _Pearl_ while her flamboyant captain and his newest recruit went -- very obviously -- ashore to dig up buried treasure. There was the occasional glint from the _Furia_ as an eyeglass was turned towards the pirate ship, but the light was failing rapidly, and Jack'd made sure that no one did anything even faintly  
interesting to draw attention.

The beach was abandoned, neither party having deemed it necessary to set a guard on their boat; now and then, through the thick forest that came down almost to the sea, Jack saw a flicker of torchlight as Shaftoe and Sparrow -- played, with relish, by Mr Burton and Mr Cooper -- lured Don Espinosa onward, away from the shore, the reef and the fabled Aztec treasure.

On the starboard quarter, meanwhile, out of sight of the _Furia_ 's unwatchful watch, Martingale and Stone were lowering the _Black Pearl_ 's gig to the water. The rest of the treasure-hunting party sat or crouched near the rail, ready to clamber into the boat as soon as Jack gave the word.

"Any sign of trouble?" Bootstrap asked, looking up as his captain approached.

"None," said Jack, sitting down on a hatch-cover to draw on his boots. "I'd say Don Esteban's ashore, in search of treasure -- with Mr Shaftoe as added incentive."

Shaftoe glowered at Jack, who found this response oddly cheering.

"For revenge, Mr Shaftoe," he amplified, grinning. "Why, whatever did you _think_ I meant?"

Shaftoe growled, low, and Martingale laughed out loud, subsiding only when Jack raised an eyebrow at him.

"Shall we go, gentlemen?" said Bootstrap hastily.

Jack glanced back at Shaftoe, and was reminded once more of that day when the _Pearl_ \-- still stenchful with naphtha, her deck crowded with men who couldn't wait to escape the cargo's reek, and her brig stuffed with Don Espinosa and his men -- had made Port Royal. Then, too, he'd felt Jack Shaftoe's gaze on him time and again; had looked up, more than once, more than twice, to see Shaftoe's blue gaze sliding away from him. That day, he'd been at a loss to know how to keep Shaftoe on board with him. Now he couldn't help but wonder if, after all, it would've been easier to let him go in Port Royal, and spare himself -- spare them both -- a great deal of aggravation.

So much would be different. Jack, with Enoch and Bill to help him, might eventually have come (though perhaps not so enjoyably) to the secret of the map, revealed to Jack only by Shaftoe-'gendered heat. He might've had the _Furia_ on his trail, though perhaps without such a thirst for _vengeance_. And poor bloody Shaftoe would have ten fingers still: and Jack would never have felt the touch of a single one of them on his person. And oh, how he longed --

Enough of that. Shaftoe was already down in the boat, jammed up between Felton and Stone: no room for Jack there, which was probably a blessing in disguise. Instead he swung himself down into the bow, where he could turn his back on Jack Bloody Shaftoe and all his infinite variety.

"Strike out, lads!" he exhorted the others, twisting to face astern for a moment. "But keep the noise down, eh? Smooth as an admiral's barge, if you please: none of the usual rackety splashing."

There was a chorus, a quiet chorus, of assent and understanding, and the oarsmen bent to their tasks. Shaftoe took an oar, too; he was unpracticed, but strong, and he got the hang of it quickly enough. Very adaptable, was Mr Shaftoe: very quick to learn.

Bootstrap kicked Jack, possibly by accident, and jolted him out of his reverie. He looked away from Shaftoe, and ahead of the boat, to where opaque grey waves still lapped at a crest of jagged black rock; and tried, very hard, to think only of gold.

* * *

The reef was a spiny ridge like a dragon's backbone that stretched half a mile down the bay. It was fretted and bejewelled with shellfish and kelp, little hollows still full of seawater that mirrored the gloomy sky, sharp blades of glassy rock that Jack could feel through the soles of his boots. (Sparrow had been most insistent that every man donned the sturdiest footwear he possessed.)

Jack was still surprised to've been included in the treasure hunt at all; but perhaps Sparrow felt he owed Jack something. Or perhaps he thought Jack'd be more ... more _amenable_ , if he were suddenly wealthy.

That thought made Jack's mouth twist sourly as he stumbled over the reef, eyes down, searching for the buttery shimmer of gold, or the regular lines of chests or casks; for any sign, really, that some conquistador had buried his loot out here, in such a place.

"And what's this treasure made of, Captain?" Bootstrap had asked, when they were all crowded into Sparrow's cabin to hear the Plan. "Gold, is it? Or heathen idols and frippery nonsense?"  
"I've no idea," Sparrow'd said, with an avaricious grin. "But if those conquistadors thought it worth taking, I'll lay it's worth finding again."

"The empire of the Aztecs was rich in gold," Enoch had said thoughtfully: typical of the man, Jack'd thought at the time, never giving a straight response but only leading you to believe that he'd answered your question. It'd seemed to satisfy the others, anyway: Stone and Felton were muttering together excitedly.

"Do we even know how it got there?" Jack'd enquired. "Was it cast up in some wreck, or did they hide it there on purpose?"

Jack Sparrow had looked at him, without rancour but without any real warmth either. (Jack had not expected indifference to be so wounding.) "Hidden, I'm hoping," Sparrow'd said laconically. "Else half of it will've washed ashore by now. We'll spread out," he'd announced to the assembled men. "We've only an hour or so of slack water, and the light'll be gone once the tide starts coming in."

"No lanthorns?" Stone'd asked.

"For the Spanish, p'rhaps?" Sparrow had reminded him witheringly. "No lanthorns. Any man of you sees something, he's to pass the word along the reef to myself or Mr Turner, here. Heads down, faces blackened -- yes, Davis, you've the advantage of us there, though the rest of you are filthy enough that it shouldn't take much effort -- and no noise if you can help it."

Jack told himself that chance alone had placed him ashore, or a-reef, next to Jack Sparrow, who -- still in that risible cap, with his hair tied back and his whole face smudged with galley-soot -- was prowling sure-footed over the slippery black stone, occasionally bending (Jack tore his eyes away from the elegant curves of Sparrow's arse and legs) to examine something at his feet. Sheer chance, yes: and not, not at all, the urge to mend matters, to make things better, to apologise somehow for his earlier churlishness. For 'twas night, now, or near enough; and Jack did not want to sleep on this quarrel; nor -- assuming he was given any choice -- to sleep alone. And he could not help but think of the quick, fierce bliss that Sparrow'd bestowed upon him, down in the dark of the armoury, and of how he'd turned away and left Sparrow unfulfilled.

_Make him a 'pology he won't never forget!_ , pestered the Imp. _Put your mouth on him and tell him so!_

Jack stumbled again, and peered at the rubbly blackness before him. He was almost at the mid-point of the reef, where spikes and spires of coral-crusted rock were clustered like a miniature city: and there, atop the highest of 'em, was a Jerusalem cross, viridian with weed in the last of the light, carved deep into the black, black stone.

* * *

The footing was uneven, and Jack Sparrow trod carefully in his good boots, thankful all over again for the care that their previous owner had lavished upon them. Behind him he could hear the splash and curl of the waves; there was still half a glass or so before the tide would start coming in again.

Off to his left paced Jack Shaftoe, with Felton beyond him, almost out of sight in the gathering dusk. To Jack's right was young Martingale, who'd already reached the seaward edge of the reef and was retracing his steps, squinting. Less than ideal weather in which to search for anything, Jack thought: but the gloom would hide them from the Spaniards, so 'twas not entirely unfortunate.

"Jack!" he heard, from his left, and despised himself for the way his blood surged to hear Jack Shaftoe say his name once more. He quelled that reaction ruthlessly, and schooled his features to an expressionless calm (not that Shaftoe'd be able to tell, from this distance) before he began to make his way towards where Jack Shaftoe crouched -- good man, not skylining himself -- next to an outcropping of rock.

Hard not to hurry, whether towards gold or towards Shaftoe: but Jack went carefully, and in a minute was beside Shaftoe, staring at the mark chiselled into the stone, not six feet from his face.

"It's pretty old," said Shaftoe carefully, glancing at Jack. "The seaweed's grown half over it."

"Old enough to date from my grand-daddy's time," said Jack. "But why would they --" He went a bit closer, skirting a misshapen chunk of rock the size of his torso. "Aha!"

"What?" said Shaftoe.

"There's a, a pool, or something, right here below -- careful, Jack!" For Shaftoe, coming to Jack's side, had slipped on the weed-slick rock, and overbalanced. Quicker than thought, Jack's hand was on his elbow, catching him and hauling him upright.

"Thanks," said Shaftoe, rather gruffly, after a moment.

The sound served to rouse Jack from a vivid reminiscence. "That's quite all right, Mr Shaftoe," he said, removing his hand from the tantalising warmth of Jack Shaftoe's arm. It would be easy to read too much into the way Shaftoe was looking at him, the way his hand rose to follow Jack's own. He don't want it, Jack reminded himself. He don't want you.

"Jack, I'm --"

"Later, eh?" said Jack, with a tight smile. But he surely hadn't imagined the note of apology in Shaftoe's voice, and it warmed him to his core: oh, Jack Shaftoe might deserve the same treatment he'd meted out earlier, but Jack couldn't bring himself to rebuff Shaftoe, not just yet.

"Let's just see what's in this little ... this little _hollow_ , shall we?" Jack said, squatting down at the edge of the water. No sign of any treasure, but that mark had to mean something; and besides, he needed to distract himself from Shaftoe's warm proximity, and his efforts at reconciliation, and Jack's own desire to ...

He dipped his hand into the pool. The water was colder than he'd expected, and he couldn't feel rock: the water went down, down deep.

"Nothing there?" said Shaftoe, with the voice of a man who’s innured to disappointment.

"I don't think ... no, wait," said Jack, leaning forward to reach deeper. "I can feel something. It's --"

There was a distant shout, and Jack saw Shaftoe's head go up. "What," he began; and then there was something touching, grasping, "oh, fuck," _pulling_ , "Jack!"

But Jack Shaftoe wasn't looking at him any more.


	59. impofperversity | An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter Fifty-Eight

  


“Jack!”

“Oh, fuck, _Jack_!”

Suddenly, out of the spumey darkness, he was being doubly hailed: by Felton off to his left, and Sparrow down by his knees. It startled Jack out of a pleasurably agonising reverie in which he’d been grasping Jack Sparrow by his shoulders and declaiming his absolute regret for being such an obnoxious ingrate, and his obvious need for a) forgiveness and b) the opportunity to make immediate reparations; for a moment he didn’t know where to look. Felton was shouting again, and Jack swung round; there Felton stood, a twiggy black silhouette against the gloaming, an arm thrown out and pointing; pointing back into the bay, pointing at—

Oh, shit.

A boat, another boat; and he peered into the half-dark to make out the horrid detail of it. A _Spanish_ boat, laden and bristling with men and armaments, not two hundred yards from the edge of the reef.

At his feet, Sparrow was shouting obscenities.

“I know,” said Jack fervently, and then there was a flash of fire from the boat, and Jack roared, “Down, Felton!” even as he started running across the razored rocks towards him.

Too slow, too late; and Felton spun like a top, fell sideways with a cut-short cry. Jack started to slip, and crouched; stillness was his greatest chance of invisibility. He turned then, back to Sparrow, who was finally silent, expecting to see his captain crouched and staring just as Jack was. But that was not what he saw at all. What he saw closed an iron hard fist of fear around his chest.

Sparrow was braced across the pool, one hand clutching a spiny crenellated rock with a white-knuckled death grip, his other arm disappearing into cold black water; his mouth worked without making a sound, and there was _something_ , God alone knew what, but _something_ , thick and tentacled, wrapped about his neck.

Jack’s brain did not waste time with thinking; he leapt to his feet without an instant’s hesitation, and ran back, grabbing at the knife in his belt. Sparrow’s feet scrabbled against rock; his arm beneath the water must be trapped, and if he let go with the other arm, to try to wrench this thing away from himself, he would be pulled down, and Jesus Christ—if he went down there, if he went down—

The monstrous limb wrapped tight about Sparrow’s neck was a livid, mucid purple, and it slipped under Jack’s fingers as he tried to pull it free; there were great sucking pads on its underside, and it was like trying to prise a limpet from a rock with his bare fingers. Sparrow was gasping and staring up at him with a look of such rage that Jack had to forcibly remind himself that it was not directed at _him_ , but rather at this sudden and horrid reversal of circumstance.

“I’ll get you out, I’ll get you out,” he was saying, over and over and over again as he beat at the thing, and then wrapped his arms about Sparrow’s waist and braced a leg against a spire of rock and pulled for all he was worth, ignoring the searing flash of pain from his left hand. But the thing was strong, oh very strong; for one brief second he felt Sparrow come towards him, and then the pull of it was redoubled, and if he let go now, oh God it would take Jack Sparrow down, but he _had_ to, had to fight it somehow; and he freed his knife arm, pulling still as hard as he could with his left, and reached down into the water to take a great slashing hack at the thick tentacle that circled up around the pirate’s throat.

He felt the creature’s tremor translated all the way through Sparrow’s body, and pulled hard again, with a great shout, and Sparrow shot a foot or more out of the water and gasped, “Ja—”

And then the water boiled blackly, and two, three more tentacles shot out, and wrapped around Sparrow’s thighs, and his other arm, and Sparrow threw Jack one wild, desperate look before, in one terrifying blink of an eye, disappearing below the surface.

_Oh fuck oh fuck oh fucking Jesus fuck—_

There came the sound of gunfire behind him, and he swung round for a split second, and saw the Spaniards exchanging fire with the _Pearl_ ’s men on the northern end of the reef; heard screams, and shouts from Martingale down on the southern rocks; and a pan-flash illuminated the face of the man in the bow of the approaching boat, and it _was_ , o God damn him, it _was_ Espinosa. For a blood-red raging second Jack stood frozen, torn between his desire to kill that man as soon as humanly possible, and the desperate horror of Jack Sparrow being pulled down to the depths by that… that _thing_ ; but his Imp was screaming in his ear like an enraged monkey, and he knew what had to be done.

*

He was helpless in this creature’s grip, and felt the frozen rush of water as he was pulled down, down away from the thin blue twilight and the horrified face of Jack Shaftoe. Survival instinct kicked in with reliable immediacy, and he kicked out, and managed somehow to wrest an arm free, reaching out as he plummeted. Knife-like rocks slid fiery against his skin, lacerating; he could not worry about it, had to find purchase, and suddenly, there, his elbow smashed into an outcrop, invisible in the pitch black, and he whipped his arm around it, and kicked out at the same time, trying to brace himself against the close walls of this horrible hole.

It worked, and yet did not; with a terrible wrench, his headlong plunge was halted, but a vile shooting pain in his shoulder made his entire body arch in agony. He felt the pop of his shoulder going, of the wrenching dislocation, but it would be death to react to it; it had to be ignored, had to be borne, or he would drown down here most surely.

It seemed he would, anyway; the creature’s stranglehold had left him barely able to breathe in the long minutes bracing himself above the pool, he was already losing feeling in his struggling limbs, and stars were popping behind his eyes, stinging in the saltwater. Sucking, dragging tentacles still twined about his throat, his left hand, his thighs; he could not reach his knife, and was bearing all the weight and pressure of this creature’s downward drag on his dislocated right arm.

There was nothing, nothing, he could do to save himself.

Time wavered and slowed; he was in a black cold airless place of pain and regret, and all he could see was Jack Shaftoe’s face as he’d fallen away, the appalled twist of Shaftoe’s open mouth. He’d had Shaftoe’s strong arms around him, up there, but they had not been enough. Not this time. He had not thought that would ever be the case. Had been so sure, hearing that strange note of vulnerable apology in Shaftoe’s voice that the mess between them was fixable, and even more certain of it, hearing Shaftoe’s panicked muttering as he fought his tug-of-war with this Leviathan, _I’ll get you out, I’ll get you out_.

But Jack had seen the Spaniards, had heard the shots. Men were dying up there on the reef, just as he was dying down below; and no time now for regrets, only for hopes. And his hope, oh God his last wavery hope as a great silvery bubble escaped his mouth and the creature pulled and writhed beneath him, was that Jack Shaftoe would find some way to survive it all.

*

Jack roared at Martingale, “Get to the boat! Send up the signal!” and then, without waiting to hear whether the message had been received, without caring about anything else, he took one last great whooping breath and plunged down into the icy black water.

The shock of it went right to his bones; within a second, what little light there was disappeared and he was plunged into utter blackness. He pushed on down, using his hands on the narrow walls of the well to pull himself deeper, reaching out ahead, feeling for something, anything. He had maybe a minute. No time at all; that was no bloody time at all. The walls were slimy to his touch, in between outcrops of rock, sharp with encrustations; his fingers were numbing already in the oddly cold water, and he gripped his knife hard. Can’t drop it now, can’t drop it here. Keep going, Jack. Down further, down further, you’ve still got time…

And then he found something, collided with flesh, and knew instantly that it was Sparrow. He felt around, felt the tentacles coiled about the pirate’s still-kicking limbs. No point repeating his earlier experiment. He had to go to the heart of the problem. He put a quick hand to Sparrow’s cold face, _I’m here, I’ve come for you, I’ll get you out_ , and then wriggled down below and beyond him. Down to… whatever the fuck it was. Running a hand down the length of a tentacle, following it into the deep, searching for the body. He hit it in moments, a cold lump of monstrous flesh that pulsed and writhed under his hands. Something grabbed him by the ankle, twisting, crushing; Jack reached out blindly, grasping at some foully frilled part of the creature’s body (thankfully, there was no time to consider what it might be) to anchor himself, and raised his knife hand and plunged it, again and again, into the hard rubbery flesh.

The animal shuddered and flailed, and suddenly there were tentacles lashing all about Jack. This he took as a good sign, and redoubled his efforts, slashing and hacking and cutting in the dark, shoving his other hand into the knife-wounds and wrenching out slippery innards, his only desire to cause a rapid death. The thought of Sparrow hanging above him, or worse, drifting down already into the depths, filled him with rage and despair, and he kept stabbing and slicing for long, maddened moments before realising that the monster’s quivers were caused by nothing more than the last twitches of its nerves (and the transmutation of his own wild struggles), and it could harm neither of them any longer.

He kicked his way out of its feeble grip as it began to subside into the cold rocky heart of the reef, and stretched his arms out into the darkness; and there, there! as, with a hot burst of joy, he encountered Jack Sparrow’s limp hand.

Sparrow did not react to his touch; Jack fought back the memory of pulling up his brother Dick from the black waters of the Thames, cold and blue-mouthed, slack and heavy-limbed. That was not going to happen. Not going to happen. He kicked at the rocks, grabbed Sparrow under the shoulders—an odd shiver in the pirate’s body, did he imagine it?—and swam upwards, as fast as his bursting lungs and shaking limbs would let him, up towards the dim light, and the fight, and oh please, life.

*

Awareness of pain, really, wouldn’t’ve been his first choice for a return to the land of the living; especially since it was so very _generalised_ throughout his entire body, not to mention sporadically _intense_. Oh, fuck, that shoulder; and the burn in his lungs, and the cuts on his arms that burned with salt water, and the raw soreness about his neck.

To top it all off, someone slapped him in the face, and he sucked in an aggrieved breath and choked, and turned his head (not, in itself, much fun on such sharp rocks) and vomited sea. His shoulder screamed at the motion. No, that wasn’t right, that was someone else screaming; and gunfire; and a sudden flash of red sparks in the night sky, illuminating the welcome sight of Jack Shaftoe, crouched over him.

“Jack?” panted Shaftoe, and he leant down closer, his hair dripping coldly onto Jack’s face. “Are you back? Are you all right?”

It all returned to Jack, then; the chill black plunge, and the strange light-headed feeling of his body being inexorably starved of air and life; and then the sudden eddy in the water above him, and the touch of a strong hand, Jack Shaftoe’s hand, on his face.

“You came for me,” he said, in what turned out to be a rather ghastly croak.

“Of course I did,” said Shaftoe, as if there had been no other choice in the matter.

He couldn’t help it, couldn’t help himself. “Good thing no-one else was watching, eh?” he said. “Might think you _cared_ , Jack.”

But Shaftoe ignored the barb, glancing round to his left, where the shouts and gunfire had been joined by the ring of steel on steel. “Stay here,” he said. “I’m going to go and help, the Spaniards have made the reef.”

“I’m coming too,” Jack said, and made to sit up; his mouth opened in a silent shriek at the attempt. His right arm hung useless. Shit. Shit.

“You’re going nowhere,” said Shaftoe grimly.

“It’s my shoulder,” said Jack. “It’s popped from its cradle, Jack; I need you to put it back in.”

Shaftoe winced briefly. “Enoch’ll fix it, when we get back aboard,” he said, and glanced around again. The sounds of combat were coming closer.

“You’ll fix it now,” said Jack, horrified at the thought of lying here helpless. “It’s happened before. It ain’t so hard. Take my hand, my arm; hold tight.”

“Jack, I—”

“Do it!” snapped Jack, in the most commanding tones he could muster under the circumstances; and then he added, “Please?” Which seemed to be far more effectual. Shaftoe grabbed him at wrist and elbow, and a horrid whining noise escaped Jack at the graunch of pain.

“Put your foot in my armpit,” said Jack rapidly, “and when I tell you to pull, you fucking pull, you hear, and keep your leg braced, and you’ll feel it come back to place. And, Jack?”

“What?”

“Don’t take it personal if I scream, eh?”

“Jack, I can’t—”

“Now!” cried Jack, and clenched his teeth hard, and God bless Jack Shaftoe who stopped arguing and just pulled with all his braced might, and with a scarlet burst of agony the ball of Jack’s shoulder joint snapped back into place. Jack vomited again, and lay back panting, just for a second, maybe just for a minute…

Shaftoe was leaning over him, pushing the hair back from his face, muttering, “Are you all right, are you all right?”

“Fine and dandy,” lied Jack. “Now, where’s this fight, eh?” He pushed himself upright, and flexed his arm, testing; it moved, but the movement came with pain that made the world spin, all starry-dark and full of sea-spray.

Shaftoe stood, slow and careful so’s not to attract any undue attention, and held a hand down to Jack. Jack allowed himself to be hauled to his feet, stumbling on legs as weak and unsteady as a brand new colt’s, and steadied himself thankfully against the warming (despite being drenched, and plastered with sticky, foetid purple-black guts) solidity of Shaftoe’s chest. Shaftoe did not pull away; but put a hand, firm and broad, on the small of Jack’s back.

They exchanged a wordless look and Jack could not look away, even though there was no time for this, no time to lose.

“Jesus, Jack,” said Shaftoe, low and urgent, “I—”

A dark shape moved, catlike, from behind a nearby spire of rock; the moon emerged, and glinted dully on an ornate cuirass, and a long blade.


	60. An Alchemical Prescription,  59

  
  
Jack could feel Sparrow shivering against him, and he wasn't any too warm himself after diving into that icy inky pit. The sight, though, of that slinking figure amid the rocks, silhouetted against a sudden blaze of torchlight -- heaven forfend that Don Esteban should venture anywhere without his men to back him up! -- sent an enlivening flush of rage through his body, as incendiary in its way as the rush of joy that he'd felt when his questing hands found Jack Sparrow, down in the inky waters.

"Oh, bloody _hell_ ," said Sparrow now, his voice no more than a ragged whisper that nonetheless conveyed profound disgust.

Don Esteban was picking his way daintily towards them across the treacherous rock, taking his time about it. He must be sure that none of the _Pearl_ 's crew were near enough to interfere. Jack looked around, but could see nobody. There was a knot of shouting, shots and screams northward, behind Don Esteban, and Martingale was around somewhere, letting off Enoch's patent Distress Rocket. Jack hoped someone on the ship would see it. He had only the knife in his hand: and he was better off than poor Jack Sparrow, who was leaning against him -- for warmth, Jack suspected, as much as for support -- with sticky blood welling from dark gashes all up and down his arms. Jack wished he'd some of Enoch's infernal concoctions to staunch --

He fumbled, painfully left-handed, in the pocket of his breeches, and drew out a small, soggy fold of paper.

"Jack," he whispered urgently, "eat this."

"Wha' --"

"Med'cine. Enoch gave it to me," Jack euphemised. "Quick, before ..." And he pressed it into Sparrow's good hand, and let his hand drop back to rest at Sparrow's waist. I'm here, that hand meant. I'm with you. Oh, they were a pair, all right! Jack with one hand maimed and throbbing; Sparrow with his entire arm hanging limp and obviously painful by his side, chewing on that damned packet, paper and all, and screwing up his face as though it tasted vile. Can't hurt, thought Jack, whatever it is.

"You again, mate?" Jack called to Don Esteban, hoping to distract the Spaniard's attention from Sparrow's mastications. "Thought we'd seen the last of you."

Don Esteban de Espinosa stopped before the two of them, sword in hand and a most murderously icy expression on his face.

"Ah," he said, "but _I_ am not so easy to kill, Mr Shaftoe." Without taking his eyes off Jack, he beckoned to someone behind him, a beefy bald-headed bloke with a torch in one hand and a cutlass in the other. Baldy came forward with his light -- there were a couple of other fellows hanging back, their swords glinting orange -- and now Jack could see the wide dark scar, still raw and knotted, that crossed Don Esteban's forehead and disappeared under his hair. Jack hoped it hurt.

"Shame," said Jack, tightening his hold on his knife. He'd gutted and hacked at that horror in the pit, and he wanted very badly to do the same to Don Esteban: but Baldy was looking at Jack thoughtfully, as though wondering which particular limb to lop off first. And poor Jack Sparrow -- breath rasping in his throat, looking as pale as Jack'd even seen him -- was unlikely to be of much use. Whatever Enoch's medicine was, it did not seem to be having very much effect. Perhaps its virtues had been diluted by sea water. No help to be expected from that quarter; yet Jack would not abandon him.

Best keep Don Esteban talking, then, until the _Pearl_ 's men noticed their captain's peril, or simply took it upon themselves to get rid of the Spaniard _properly_ , having dismally failed to do so at the previous opportunity.

"I see you and Captain Sparrow have reached an ... agreement," said Don Esteban now, with a gleaming leer that was somehow worse than his coldly vengeful frown. He gestured at Jack's hand -- still bandaged -- on Sparrow's waist.

"What's that to you?" said Jack. He did not move his hand, but only spread his fingers against Sparrow's shredded shirt, ignoring the tendril of pain that shot up his arm from the place where the smallest of 'em had been: had been before this man before him, Don Fucking Esteban de Espinosa, had lied and betrayed and called down de Braxas' vengeance on Jack Shaftoe.

"Per'aps I will take your pretty captain with me," said Don Esteban, pursing his lips. "You, Mr Shaftoe, you were not so very friendly to me, for all your pretence." He caught Jack's eye, and Jack's face heated at the memory of how he'd played the harlot with this man. "But your captain," went on Espinosa, "seems, how would you say, more ... complaisant."

"Only in the right company," croaked Jack Sparrow, "and you ain't it." The marks on his throat stood out starkly against his skin, and he was leaning more heavily on Jack, but he looked down his nose at Don Esteban as though the Spaniard were an especially repulsive invertebrate.

That defiance -- had it sprung from Enoch's mystery powder? -- sent a warm golden thrill through Jack's whole body. Oh, the two of them together 'gainst the world, they'd be unbeatable! Surely they could take care of one lisping Spaniard with a head-wound, and his unchancy mates?

Don Esteban frowned, and cupped his ear. "Speak louder," he snapped.

"He ain't going nowhere with you," cried Jack, loud as he dared -- where were Bootstrap, and Martingale, and the rest of 'em? Could they not see that he was in need of assistance? -- "and neither am I!"

Don Esteban shrugged. "So you say: yet I am the one with the sword, and the men. And you, Mr Shaftoe, you have nothing." His gaze swept the reef. It was almost full dark now, and the circle of torchlight made the evening darker. Jack counted in his head. There'd been ten of 'em in the boat. Poor Felton was dead, or as good as. (Jack could not bring himself to mind this very much, for 'twas Felton's incompetence that'd doomed him to de Braxas' rough justice: but still, Felton would've been on his side, would've fought for his captain.) One down, and from the sound of it the rest of 'em were elsewise occupied. None of the treasure-hunting party had brought more than small-arms with them, the boat being cramped and the Spanish, as they'd thought, off in the jungle on a wild goose chase.

"Nothing, is it?" he said loudly, baring his teeth at the Spaniard.

Espinosa's eyes narrowed. "You are in no position to bargain, Mr Shaftoe: and there is only one thing I want from you: that is, a life for --"

Jack said quickly, "I know where the treasure is."

Don Esteban smiled -- that bright and oily smile that Jack so dearly longed to put his knife to -- and said, "You seek to live longer? But your captain, he does not wish it."

For Sparrow was pushing himself away from Jack, and stepping towards Espinosa, and smiling with a ferocity that sent pleasurable shivers down Jack's backbone.

"Tenfold," he said.

* * *

Enoch Root was a genius: Jack Sparrow reckoned he knew genius when he saw it (being prone to it himself) and how else to describe this marvellous concoction that Enoch, bless him, had had the foresight to ready for this moment? Oh, Jack was still distantly aware of his body and its manifold pains. His right shoulder shimmered and shivered with ache, and the lacerations on his arms and upper body stang keenly with salt and cold: and when he spoke, the word seemed formed of red-hot lava. He wanted rum, to soothe him and to give his griping belly something to work on. Rum, and Shaftoe's warm and certain touch.

So he kept the threatening brief, for his own benefit as much as Don Esteban's. For a moment he thought he'd been _too_ concise, for the Spaniard's haughty, mocking sneer did not alter. But then Jack Shaftoe, beside him, began to laugh (it was like an actual light: what was _in_ this stuff?) and the glimmerings of understanding swept across Espinosa's face like, like something nasty pushing out from underneath.

"I do not think," said Don Esteban thinly, "that you are in a position to threaten me, captain. Antonio!"

Antonio -- a great hulking bloke, or, no, a trained bear like the ones Jack'd seen dancing at taverns -- stepped forward into the light.

"Mr Shaftoe," said Don Esteban, with relish, "seems reluctant to tell what he knows. Perhaps we must convince him, eh? No, fool," he added, as Antonio peered doubtfully at Jack Shaftoe, all dripping with blood and brine and muck, knife in his hand, feral amusement on his face at Jack's suggestion. "Let us discover how fond he is of his captain."

Jack thought he'd quite like to discover that himself. He watched with interest as the point of Don Esteban's sword swung round, like a compass needle, to hover in front of Jack himself, no more than a handspan from his pounding heart.

Shaftoe saw the opening, and instantly leapt t'wards Espinosa, knife in his outstretched hand: but this flattering reaction (flattering to Jack, at least) had been anticipated, and Antonio had lumbered forward and thrown his weight full against Shaftoe, cruelly twisting his arm and forcing him to drop his weapon: forcing him to kneel before Don Esteban.

Don Esteban looked down on him, and there was a twist to his smile that Jack did not like at all; a lustful twist, a lecherous twist. As though anyone could resist the sight of Jack Shaftoe on his knees! A bright flare of jealousy rose in Jack's throat, and he fumbled for his own knife.

The tip of Espinosa's blade nudged coldly against his aching chest.

"You, Mr Shaftoe, will tell me where the treasure is," demanded the Spaniard, his eyes never leaving Jack's face, "and perhaps I will give you an easy death, eh?"

"Why should I tell you anything?" said Shaftoe fiercely, struggling in Antonio's ursine grasp. "If you're going to kill me anyway?"

Cold bile flooded Jack's belly at the thought of Shaftoe dead; he could not let it happen, not with so much left unsaid.

"Because you care for your pretty captain," said Don Esteban. "Because you will not like to see him ... suffer."

Jack could feel the cold metal teasing at the raw weals left by his passage down through that horrid deep, but it was not exactly _suffering_. And there was something warm there too, something warm and wet.

"Barking up the wrong tree there, mate," he told Don Esteban, grinning. "Mr Shaftoe ain't so easily persuaded."

Espinosa glanced at Shaftoe, and frowned. Shaftoe was still on his knees, his arm twisted up behind his back, his own knife (almost invisible in Antonio's filthy paw) against his throat: but he was glaring at Don Esteban, and the rage and fury in his face warmed Jack's black heart like summer sun.

"A little more, then," said the Spaniard; and he looked Jack up and down appraisingly. "Bernardo!" And a swift flurry of Spanish that Jack could not quite comprehend. 'Brazo', that was 'arm'; he was sure of it. Perhaps this Bernardo was --

But Bernardo's hands did not seem particularly gentle, and there was a sudden dizzying looseness in Jack's shoulder. For a moment Jack thought that Bernardo had somehow removed his arm entirely, for he could not feel it at all; only the man's hands, clammy and too many of 'em, all grabbing and pulling and stretching. Someone was making a horrid thin wailing noise. Don Esteban's eyes were very bright, very very bright, like a wild dog's. He was smiling at Jack.

But Shaftoe was staring at him in horror: was shaking his head -- as though it was Jack's fault that his arm had come off! -- and saying, loud and clear, "No, wait, I'll tell you everything."

"Pardon?" said Don Esteban merrily, tilting his head towards Shaftoe, still fretting the blade against Jack's bare skin.

"I _said_ , I'll tell you everything!" yelled Shaftoe: and, as if to punctuate his words, there was a cracking noise, and a boom, and the splash of something heavy crashing into the water nearby. Jack felt cool spray on his face, and heard more shouting. "Phoebe," he said aloud (the wailing having stopped). The tide was coming in.

"Están tirando en nosotros!" cried the man with the torch, spinning round so that the light whirled and scattered crazily on little rivulets of water, turning them to molten gold as they snaked around the sharp black spines of rock. Gold, though Jack, oh yes. Wonder if anyone's found any.

Don Esteban swore vilely, and scowled. "They will not fire on their captain," he said. "Captain Sparrow, I beg you will accept my hospitality, eh?"

"I ain't going --" began Jack. But there was someone's heavy hand against his mouth, hard, damming the rest of his words; and Antonio was wrestling Shaftoe to his feet, his thick hide as good as armour 'gainst Shaftoe's elbows, knees and teeth.

"Tráigalos, " said Don Esteban. "Bring him. Bring them both."


	61. impofperversity | An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter Sixty

  


Antonio was completely impervious to Jack Shaftoe’s struggles; even some of the more effectual connections, such as Jack’s booted heel coming down on Antonio’s instep, generated nothing but a tighter grip on Jack’s twisted arm, till Jack was all but bent double with it. Bastard, bastard, bastard Spaniard. He was being pushed along the reef, back towards the Spaniards’ boat; some of their party were being sent ahead, to rejoin the fray against the rest of the _Pearl_ ’s men, and there were no more than a half-dozen left here with them. ‘Twas clear that Espinosa no longer considered Sparrow and himself to be much of a threat; and Jack could understand that assumption, from a purely military viewpoint. He himself was disarmed, and caught in a frankly agonising armlock by a human bear; and as for Sparrow, well, he was a pathetic thing to see. Horridly bloodied, and with his right arm hanging loose and oddly disconnected by his side; it swung as he stumbled on the toothy rocks, and the Spaniard who held him by the other arm swore at him and jerked him upright. Sparrow’s head jerked and lolled, his eyes rolling whitely in the torchlight; he seemed far, far from lucid, no matter how much he must’ve pulled himself together, before, to’ve been able to give Espinosa lip. Oh, it was killing Jack; it was bad enough, to be in this position himself, but to watch Sparrow thus—to’ve watched that beast wrench his arm, with cold deliberation, back out of its socket—it made him shudder, to think that Espinosa had watched the entire episode from behind that rock, and knew of Sparrow’s agony, and yet would use it against him again. For gold. For bloody _gold_.

(Jack was not so foolish as to believe, deep down, that this was a sufficient rationale for what Esteban de Espinosa was doing. But it was the rationale which left Jack with the least amount of bilious guilt to swallow, and such ingestion was not a constructive use of his energies, just then.)

Instead, Jack (constructively) enraged himself by dwelling on the cruelly salacious way that Espinosa had been looking at Jack Sparrow, and calling him, with such salivatory bitterness, _your pretty captain_ ; Jack was repulsed by the thought of what might be lurking in the man’s head, what vile depravities he might be considering, but images kept slithering across his mind’s eye. What might a man like that not do, with the object of his twisted desires helpless in his power?

There was an odd, nauseating connectivity between these fears, and Jack’s own thoughts of what _he_ would do, alone with Jack Sparrow. A connectivity, yes; he too would want to touch Jack Sparrow’s shivering golden flesh, and feel Sparrow’s mouth upon him, and watch Sparrow’s breath come harsh and fast; but oh, Christ, those things were a hundred thousand leagues away from what Espinosa might be thinking. Those things, in Jack’s mind, were fond and warm, sweetly dangerous, spicily enticing; and how could it be that the last time he had been granted that glory was mere hours past? How could he have been so high, and yet now be brought so foully low?

These thoughts were interrupted by another flash of fire from the bay, a dull following boom, a squealing hiss, and they were drenched once more as a ball crashed into the edge of the reef, sending up showers of rocky splinters and shaking them all, sending them stumbling and staggering. Either the _Pearl_ ’s crew hadn’t noted their Captain in this party, or they’d decided that the potential benefits of a well-placed cannonball outweighed the attendant risks.

“Señor!” called one of the Spaniards, behind him. “The torches! We should douse the torches, no?”

“And fall in the dark?” shouted Don Esteban. “Move faster, you curs! We are nearly upon the boat, and _then_ there will be time to hide in the dark like English cowards. Move, I say!”

They were, indeed, nearly there; Jack could see their boat, and the two nervous young men who crouched on the reef, holding her ropes, ready to push off as soon as their companions returned.

“Get in,” said Espinosa to Jack, with a curt lift of his goatee’d chin in the direction of the boat.

“Now why should I do that?” said Jack, belligerently, stalling for time.

“Because if you do not”—Espinosa pointed his pistol at Jack’s leg—“I will shoot you in the knee.”

“Go on, Jack,” came Sparrow’s voice in a low sing-song. “I like boats. Boats are much better than rocks. Go on, get in.”

This ludicrous comment only served to raise Jack’s concerns about the state of Jack Sparrow’s current mental health, and the dangers of abandoning him even for a moment.

“Put Sparrow in first,” argued Jack. “I’m not leaving him up here with you.”

Don Esteban cocked his pistol, and squinted a little in the torchlight as he took careful aim at Jack’s kneecap. “You will do as you are told; and I am losing patience,” he said through his teeth; his hand was shaking a little, and he was clearly itching to pull the trigger.

“Don’t worry ‘bout me, Jack,” slurred Sparrow. “He can’t hurt me, this useless piece of shit.”

“I beg to differ,” said Jack, having recently been subjected to the stomach-churning sight of Sparrow being elegantly carved up with the point of Espinosa’s sword, not to mention the whole arm incident.

“No, really,” said Sparrow, and he smiled at Jack; it was a strange, beatific smile, punctuated by an odd intensity in Sparrow’s dark gaze, and it cut Jack’s heart into a thousand tiny slivers. “He actually can’t hurt me.”

Jack’s brain ticked over, and came to a most satisfactory conclusion, but he kept his expression plain, and allowed himself to be manhandled down into the boat. Antonio boarded right behind him, and the little vessel rocked and tipped under his bulk as he shoved Jack forward. Jack swayed, and put out a foot to stabilise himself.

Unfortunately, just as he gained his balance, there came a high whining hiss, and a large percentage of the boat transformed into a million splintery matchsticks.

*

From Jack’s dizzy and discarnate viewpoint, Shaftoe and Antonio had instantaneously disappeared in an intricate maelstrom of delicately whirling particles, a maelstrom which was oddly pretty and would’ve made him smile, were it not for the fact that it was also causing him to fall over, with exquisite slowness, on those damned sharp rocks, with Bernardo atop him. An action which should’ve been completely agonising, if he’d been fully connected to his corpus, and wasn’t it a good thing that he was not?

He lay there for a moment with Bernardo across his chest and groans and wails echoing around him, and then noted that although the water covering the rocks was rather cold, some other liquid which was delightfully _warm_ was trickling down over him to meet it; and Bernardo was as heavy and limp as meat, and just as dead. Jack grunted and, with some effort, rolled the corpse off himself with his useable arm, and peered across the watery rocks.

There were three more unmoving bodies, presumably suffering from the same surfeit of deadly sharp wood-shards as Bernardo’s; the rest were groaning and scraping themselves off the rocks, and all the torches had been extinguished. What little light there was came sporadically, as the moon was revealed by scudding clouds. It was oddly quiet, aside from the roar and crash of waves; no sound of the fighting northwards. And in the water, there was—

Nothing. Nothing, save oily black waves and the still intact bow of the boat, upended, smacking hollowly into the reef.

No Jack Shaftoe.

_No Jack Shaftoe_.

For a chilling moment Jack could not breathe, and his heart seemed unable to beat; then a slow rage began to burn in his chest, slow and yet building. Building and building in some black volcanic ugliness, and this rage had a pure and savage purpose; became, in seconds, a fiery crucible for his deepest and cruellest dispositions. Deep inside him, Enoch’s powder had found its mark.

“ _Se va el barco_ ,” came a tremulous voice out of the dark.

“ _¿Hay otro barco, no, idiota?_ ” said another. Espinosa; and at the sound of his voice, Jack (or Jack’s rage; they were no longer distinguishable one from the other) wrapped the fingers of his, its, functioning hand about the leather-bound handle of his knife. And then had a second thought.

Pain was his plaything now; it could not touch him. And he needed his right arm back. Now.

His right hand lay on the rocks at his side; Jack, still lying on his back, brought up his right knee until he could stand upon his hand, and pressed down hard. Rock cut into his palm, and he noted the pain with hazy dispassion. He twisted to his right, bracing his left hand against the reef; stood as hard as he could on his right hand; and, gritting his teeth together firmly, just in case some part of him should decide to protest this action, he suddenly levered his body up and round.

The grind and pop of bone shuddered and echoed through him, and he knew the agony of it again, but it belonged to some other poor wretch, and he did not scream this time.

He transferred the knife to the numb and clumsy grasp of his bleeding right hand, sliding its blade up his shirtsleeve before stealthily extracting Bernardo’s sword from its scabbard with his left. He still could not hear any sound from further up the reef; the black water still crashed and hissed against the rocks, higher with every passing minute, and yet unbroken by any sign of Jack Shaftoe, alive or dead.

_Of course he’s dead_ , Jack’s rage told him. _He was in the bloody boat when it was hit._ He tried not to reflect on the horrid irony of one of his beloved _Pearl_ ’s own balls being the means of ending Jack Shaftoe’s bright life. There was only one thing to concentrate on now: revenge.

Espinosa stood now at the water’s edge, kicking at the foetal, whimpering form of one of the boys who had been guarding the boat, calling down curses upon him and demanding that he stand like a man, and come with them to commandeer the _Pearl_ ’s gig.

And though every motion caused a million fiery bright points of pain all through him, Jack could ignore them; could stagger to his feet, and growl, “ _El otro_ fucking _barco es el mío_ , mate, and it’s staying that way.”

Espinosa turned, and looked at him in surprise, as though he’d thought him dead already; and Jack smiled lupine in the moonlight, and let his right arm dangle and the black hatred roar and thump through him as he lunged.

He should not have lasted more than a moment, fighting Espinosa left-handed and in the state in which the past half hour’s events had left him; and yet, oh yet, strange magic was running through his blood, and it slowed the rest of the world and let him pass through it at careless speed, feeling no real pain, no real fear, only exhilarating anger and a horrible lust for destruction at any cost. One of Espinosa’s men barred Jack’s way to his captain, and yet Jack was through and past him almost before he recognised that he’d half-decapitated the man. Espinosa swore, and then braced himself against Jack’s onslaught, and all Jack could think of—never mind Espinosa’s undoubted skill and strength, never mind his fierce counter-attack—was which, of the many and varied methodologies that were skittering through his sparking mind, would be his preferred way to kill him. He did not mark it when Espinosa’s blade met his shoulder in a glancing, slicing blow, but pressed forward; pressed forward, and then with a lunge and a twist brought the Spaniard up close against a spire of rock, and their swords clashed loudly, blades sliding and ringing metallic until brought up short by hilt, and they struggled, man against man, to connect steel to flesh; but Espinosa had another good arm to aid him. He let out a guttural shout as he pushed himself away from the rock, and Jack stumbled backwards, still letting his right arm hang heavy and dead.

He saw Espinosa flick a warning glance past his shoulder, and knew that the rest of the Spaniard’s men were coming up behind him, and had been told that this kill was to be their Captain’s alone. He could hear the rasp of his own breath loud in his ears, the pulsing rush of blood in his veins, and he did not care. All he wanted was Esteban de Espinosa’s life; and he swung at him again, a wild glancing blow which Espinosa parried easily, bringing them once again face to face, raised blades between them.

“You are a fool,” said Espinosa, “but I do concede that you are a valiant fool. You are a worthy opponent; and you make revenge a very pleasurable experience, Captain.”

“Revenge, is it?” murmured Jack, leaning in close, till he could feel Espinosa’s hotly gusting breath. “Seems we’re both after the same thing, mate; yet only one of us can have it.”

“I shall have it, Captain; for you took my home, and the man to whom I owed a great deal.”

“But you,” whispered Jack (and he let the knife whose blade lay flat against his wrist slip round, tightening his grip, ignoring those waves of irrelevant pain), “you, Senor, took something worth a thousand of Alejandro de Braxas. You took Jack Shaftoe from me. And this is the price you will pay.”

Espinosa’s eyes widened; his mouth opened, just a little; and Jack’s unlooked-for blade slid ever up, ever in, and he twisted it with a cold, brutal delight.

One of the men behind him cried out, and Jack spun about to hold them off with his left hand as the right completed its mission of disembowelment. There were three of them advancing on him. He bared his teeth at them, and though he knew it unlikely that he could prevail, still he burned with dark rage, and he would not quail.

Esteban de Espinosa fell slowly away from Jack’s knife, crumpling to the wet rocks, and Jack turned to face his three opponents just as, with a sharp crack of thunder, the clouds broke open and let go a torrent of rain.

And there, behind the three men who were coming to kill him; there, brilliantly illuminated as lightning arc’d whitely across the sky; there, sword in hand like some grim angel of vengeance; there stood Jack Shaftoe.


	62. An Alchemical Prescription,  61

  
  
The sudden arrival of the cannonball had bewildered Jack Shaftoe: it had birthed a monster, a solid creature, composed of sound and splinters, of cold sea-water and the warm flush across his back as a thousand sharp-fanged wooden atomies -- until a moment ago they'd clung together as the curved, water-tight hull of the Spanish gig -- sank through his shirt and into his skin. This would have hurt, had Jack had time to pay attention to it, but the ocean had risen up to drown him, and somebody had taken the boat away.

He surfaced, spluttering, and was immediately slapped in the face by another wave. The tide was coming in strong and fast. Jack could not see the reef -- black rock against a black sea, and no torchlight to illumine it -- but he could hear waves breaking on the sharp stone, and the sound of booted feet and Spanish curses. He dared not think of whether Jack Sparrow had survived that blast. It had been so very near, and Sparrow had already been reeling and bleeding and utterly out of it (though feeling, or so he'd claimed, no pain) after his ingestion of Enoch's mystery powder.

A sick feeling rose in Jack's gut at the thought of Sparrow dead, and he blinked back a sudden warmth in his eyes. And what was the _Black Pearl_ doing, anyway, firing on her captain? Where were the others, Bootstrap and Martingale and the rest? They'd been bloody quiet in the last few minutes. Oh Christ, what if the _Black Pearl_ were taken, and her men all murdered?

Better, in that case, that Jack Sparrow had died, for Jack could not imagine him without his ship: but he had to know, had to make sure for himself. And if 'twas so, and he, Jack Shaftoe, was the sole survivor, doomed to die alone on a Spaniard's blade, he could at least avenge Jack Sparrow and take Don Esteban with him down to Hell.

Jack swam towards the reef, trying not to splash, keeping his head down in case the fickle moon appeared once more and betrayed his whereabouts. There seemed little chance of that: the sky was heavy with dark clouds, and there was a low, ominous rumbling that presaged a storm before midnight. Jack could hear Don Esteban shouting at somebody, a way away, and someone else making an unpleasant choking sound, rather nearer; but no one seemed to be looking for Jack, even when he hauled himself up onto the reef, swearing under his breath (it was that or cry out) at the pain in his left hand as he knocked it against a viciously sharp ledge. The salt-water sting on his back, where the sea had found out every tiny splinter-wound, paled before the raw red scrape of rock against his hands and knees; but Jack had achieved dry land.

Then, from directly before him, there was a brutish growl, and something tremendously heavy ground down upon Jack's fingers. He choked back a howl and tried to pull away, but to no avail.

The man above him -- Jack was sure he recognised Antonio's sour reek -- did not say a word, but his booted foot pressed down harder. Jack heard metal against metal, and deduced that his assailant had a weapon. Quickly, before it could be drawn, he rolled to one side so that his trapped arm was stretched out to his right. With his left hand he grabbed at the man's ankles, seeking to topple him. This stratagem worked a little too well, for when the man fell it was up to Jack to provide him with a soft landing; but his right hand was free, though sore from being ground against the sharp rock. Jack rolled again and got a knee in the other's gut, and an arm around his throat, and fumbled until he'd found the man's sword-hilt.

"Madre de Dios," the man grunted, and then something that might've been a plea for mercy; but Jack Shaftoe's Spanish was not reliable at the best of times, and he was feeling far from merciful. He bashed Antonio's head against the spiky rock until he fell silent, and then staggered to his feet, using the sword as a crutch, and swayed above the body for a moment, blinking into the gloom.

Off to his left he could hear Don Esteban again, and, oh, could it be _Jack Sparrow_ answering back, albeit in Spanish? Jack's whole being was suffused with tingling, heartening gladness, and a grin came unbidden to his face; Sparrow alive and alert, though doubtless still mazy and maddened by the contents of that black paper packet. Suddenly Jack felt ever so much more confident about his own chances of surviving the night.

First things first. He held the sword double-handed above Antonio's chest, and leant down on it until he could hear the point grate against rock. Antonio did not make a fuss; Jack was pleased to've knocked him out so effectively.

He looked around for another foe. It was impossible to see anything: the only light was a weird glow from the pale surf of the rising waves, and the occasional glimpse of moonlight between the clouds. Where the fuck was Bootstrap? Would none of the _Black Pearl_ 's company come to their captain's aid? (Not that Jack _minded_ having Sparrow in his debt -- indeed, he felt a warm frisson at the idea of mentioning that debt, just in play -- but he was tiring already, and there might be a great many Spaniards to slaughter before the sun came up.) At least they had stopped _firing_ on Jack Sparrow, which had to be an improvement.

Jack could see nothing, so he made for the hated sound of Don Esteban's voice. Between the crashing of waves, he could hear the clash and slide of blade against blade, and he quickened his pace, stumbling over the ragged rock. Perhaps he could save Sparrow from --

Just ahead of him, someone cried out, and Jack stopped, straining his eyes to see what was happening. His eyes were adjusting to the darkness now, and he could see the dark, slight shape of Jack Sparrow; Sparrow with a sword in his left hand, all pressed up against Don Esteban (Jack felt an utterly inappropriate and distracting quiver of jealousy) and his right hand, his right hand ... oh Christ, how was he using that hand at all? For he most certainly _was_ using it, though Jack could not see what he was doing; he saw only Don Esteban, mouth agape, crumpling slowly and silently to the black rocks. Jack Sparrow evidently did not require saving from anything at all, and Jack could've crowed with glee at the sight of him, all bloody and victorious.

The three Spaniards were watching, motionless, but that wouldn't last. One of them began to move forward, raising his sword. Jack tensed -- then very nearly shrieked like a girl as the clouds above split from top to bottom, sudden and shocking, with a ferocious lightning-bolt. Rain began to pour down, heavy as hail though much warmer; and the three Spaniards, their target lit for one dramatic instant, began to close 'pon Jack Sparrow.

A rage pure as lightning shot through Jack's whole body in the wake of all that adrenaline. They would _not_ slay Sparrow, save over Jack's dead body, never mind if they were the last two left standing. And there was no point, now, in silence or stealth. Jack yelled, and leapt forward, and bore the first swordsman down with all the weight and rage and strength he could muster.

* * *

Shaftoe, all lit by lightning and drenched with rain and something darker, was the finest sight that Jack had ever seen, and he was transfixed by it. He watched, breathing hard, as Shaftoe took down one of the Spaniards, and rose up almost instantly from his prone body, flicking his blade horizontally to clean it. Another of the men had turned to defend his compatriot, but it was too late, too late; Shaftoe yelled and lunged and hurtled into the second man, knocking him to his knees, and swung at his neck like a woodsman chopping down an oak. God, Jack Shaftoe was unstoppable, and Jack could do nothing but watch, grinning fit to split his face; now Shaftoe was making for the remaining Spaniard, who stood for a moment astonished at Shaftoe's ferocity, then turned and ran, fleet with fear, away over the reef.

Jack did not bother to watch him go. He had eyes only for Jack Shaftoe, who stood not ten feet from him, all gory and glorious, looking at Jack as though he'd found treasure.

"Jack, Jack, are you all right?" he was saying.

The man at Shaftoe's feet groaned, and Shaftoe, without even looking down, kicked him viciously in the head. The groaning stopped, and Shaftoe came on.

"Jack?"

Shaftoe was right in front of him now, and Jack gathered his wandering, flaring senses. He was vaguely aware of pain, considerable pain, lurking like a tentacled monster somewhere on the periphery of his being. Every breath that he took seemed to send sparks through each nerve in his body. He was cold, and hot, and clammy with a sticky mess. But Shaftoe was right in front of him, and this simple fact flooded Jack's brain with joy.

"Jack," he returned, beaming.

Shaftoe set his hand, his poor wounded left hand, gently upon Jack's shoulder. Jack could feel the pain that made Shaftoe's mouth twist; or perhaps it was his own pain, from somewhere or other. Shaftoe's pain, though, reminded Jack of something.

"Hang on, mate," he said. "I've a promise to keep."

Shaftoe rolled his eyes. "Well, Jack," he said, "we're on a _tidal reef_ , in the _middle of the night_ , in a _thunderstorm_ , with an indeterminate number of _maddened Spaniards_ after our blood, and very likely no ship. But do pray attend to whatever business you have here."

"No ship?" said Jack. "Nah, the _Pearl_ 's just reloading." He turned towards where he'd left Don Esteban, and almost fell as a wave of dizziness broke over him. Something clanged against the stone at his feet. Sword, thought Jack. Never mind: Jack Shaftoe'll protect me.

"Hope their aim's improved," grumbled Shaftoe, catching Jack's elbow and sending a rush of pain chasing after the dizziness. "Jack, you're --"

"Tenfold," said Jack grimly. He was beginning to remember some of the indignities and discomforts that'd been visited upon him in the hour just past, and remembering them made them somehow real, and increasingly painful. "I told 'im tenfold."

"Told who? Jack, I --" But Shaftoe, all fierce and loyal and warm, was holding Jack up, half-carrying him toward Don Fucking Esteban's corpse where it lay huddled 'gainst the deadly reef, lapped by pale surf and rinsed (Jack opened his mouth to taste) by clean fresh rain. There was a terrible thunderous clap, and for a moment Jack hoped it was cannon fire; but then the sky went white again, and he could see the mess he'd made of Don Esteban's stomach, and the sickly pallor of the Spaniard's handsome face. Could see, too (and much preferred) the rueful grin with which Jack Shaftoe said, "Damn, you got him before I could."

"Mmm," said Jack. "I --"

There was another tremendous crash, but this time the sky stayed dark. Jack looked around wildly, almost overbalancing: Shaftoe caught him, and Jack could not resist leaning on him for a long warm moment.

"That was my _Pearl_ ," he murmured into Shaftoe's damp chest. "I'd know those guns anywhere."

"Then _that's_ the _Furia_ ," said Shaftoe loudly as another roar split the air. "Jack, we have --"

"I know, I know," said Jack, pushing himself upright. He dropped to his knees -- wincing at the sharpness of the rock -- next to the corpse, and fumbled for its cold hand. Shaftoe, scowling, stayed on his feet, sword raised as though to threaten the very night. From far away Jack could hear shouting, but he could not make out the words, and he was more concerned with Don Esteban's gloves, all clammy and shrunken with salt water. Nothing that a sharp blade wouldn't fix, though 'twas a shame to ruin the fine leather; but Jack did not care to take them for himself, and he could not imagine Jack Shaftoe in anything so foppish. He slit the palm of one, then the other, and pulled them both off.

"He ain't wearing any rings," said Shaftoe, hunkering down beside him. "And I've had quite enough of his taste in pers'nal adornment, thank you kindly."

"Not after 'is rings," said Jack grimly, sawing at the cold flesh and wishing that Don Esteban was in a state to feel his blade as keenly as Jack Shaftoe'd felt the axe.

"Then what --" said Shaftoe: then, staring over Jack's shoulder, swore and stood up quickly enough to make Jack dizzy, watching him.

"What's up?" enquired Jack, laying aside one set of trophies and starting on the other hand.

Shaftoe said nothing; but a familiar voice came directionless out of the night.


	63. impofperversity | An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter Sixty-Two

  


“Is that you, Jack Shaftoe?”

Jack turned, gripping his sword reflexively and moving to block Sparrow from the newcomer’s vision, while the less instinct-driven parts of his brain slowly concluded that this was friend, not foe; and indeed, looming up out of the darkness came Bill Turner, and a scattered handful behind him. They stood as Jack did, swords in hand, and wore that same look of braced violence.

“Aye, it's me,” said Jack, “and your Captain, gents.”

Sparrow had not looked up, but crouched still over Espinosa’s corpse, sawing at its extremities and muttering to himself.

“I take it you prevailed, then?” said Jack, shifting to block their view of Sparrow’s busy dismembering. For all that Jack appreciated the gesture, and fully understood the urge, and knew that it was doubtless only happening because of the drugs he’d fed Sparrow—for all that, it probably wasn’t the best thing for these fellows to see their Captain doing. But Bill craned his neck, and his mouth twisted in revulsion.

“Jack, what in Hades are you doing?” he demanded.

There was a small silence, before: “Tenfold,” said Jacks Sparrow and Shaftoe in unison, and Jack Shaftoe followed this up by giving Bill a fierce and quelling look. Sparrow gathered up the loathsome, bloodless relics and staggered to his feet; he stared, unfocussed, at the fingers for a moment before stuffing them into his pockets.

“Did we lose anyone, Bill?” he asked, as if he hadn’t just sawn off anyone’s anything. “Anyone hurt?”

“Felton’s gone, and Davies,” said Turner. “Plenty of cuts and scrapes, otherwise, but no-one’s seriously wounded.”

“What d’you fuckin’ call me arm, or what’s fuckin’ left of it?” came an indignant voice from the back, and Turner grinned, and said, “Alright, Partridge is in a bit of a state, but he’ll live, if we can get back to the ship in one piece.”

“The Spaniards?”

“Dead, or about to be when the tide rises,” said Turner shortly.

“Let’s get back to Martingale, then, and the gig; presuming we can make the _Pearl_ without being blown to smithereens.”

There was a loud, illustrative boom, and all heads turned to the bay, where a fire could be seen, flickering with mordacious cheer in the waist of the _Furia_ , and resisting the combined efforts of rain and Spaniards to douse it.

Another wave came in, larger than the rest, washing over Jack’s feet; the tide was definitely turned.

“Come on,” he said, and before anyone else could offer help, he took Sparrow’s left arm and draped it over his shoulders. Sparrow did not argue, but leant into Jack’s body with tired gratitude; and after a few steps, Jack slipped his other arm around Sparrow’s waist for mutual support, or warmth, or comfort, or something. Jack didn’t care to analyse it, but he knew it was good. That physical closeness, again, innocent though it might be, seemed the best apology that Jack could make right here, right now, for all the foolishness and argument of earlier today; and he spread his fingers wide, stroking a rib with his thumb. Sparrow turned to look at him, and gave a tiny, rapid wink, and a lopsided grin; and Jack’s heart was warm as they set off down the reef.

“You two seem to’ve had an interesting hour,” said Bill, peering narrow-eyed at his sodden, bloodied, stumbling shipmates.

“You’ve no idea,” said Sparrow.

“Did you find any sign of it? Of the gold? I thought I heard Shaftoe call, just before the first shots were fired.”

“We found _something_ ,” said Jack, “but it was fairly heavily guarded. See?” Lightning flashed, and he paused for a moment, and lifted Sparrow’s chin with a knuckle, letting the men see the raw red weals that marked his elegant throat. Sparrow swallowed, and Jack stared at the motion of his Adam’s apple. The urge to kiss it better was swirly strong in him.

“Jesus,” said Bill fervently, and Jack could only agree.

“Jack killed it,” said Sparrow. “I’d’ve been taken by it, but for him.”

“Good man,” said Bill, clapping Jack on the shoulder. “But was there any sign of gold?”

“No,” said Sparrow, just as Jack said, “P’rhaps.” Sparrow looked at him quizzically, and wasn’t the only one.

“I felt something, on the way up,” elucidated Jack. “There was a chain, a metal chain, on the wall of that hole; ‘twas fastened to a great ring, ‘bout six foot down, though I’ve no idea what length it might’ve been. It didn’t move a lot, when I hung on it.”

“So there might be something down there,” said Sparrow, though he didn’t sound notably enthusiastic; and one of the others (Jack couldn’t see who and did not yet know the voices well enough to be sure) said, “But it ain’t guarded any more, is it?” There were murmurs of agreement.

“Are you in-fucking-sane?” said Jack, more a little querulously. “There could be any number of those beasties down there, and I ain’t about to jump in to save _you_ , mate.” The logical corollary of this statement—that he most certainly _had_ jumped in to save _Sparrow_ —went, thankfully, unremarked. Out loud, at least. There was a stolid silence as the men continued along the reef.

Sparrow, stumbling along beside him (their hips bumped occasionally, sending a shiver of something warming through Jack), began to giggle.

“What?” demanded Jack.

“Let’s go fishing,” said Sparrow. “Just quickly.”

*

Bill’d argued the point, but Jack was in no mood—indeed, no fit state—to take part in any sort of logical or reasoned argument, and so he’d ignored his First and ploughed ahead, supported all the way by Jack Shaftoe’s broad shoulders, and his wide hand that burned pleasurably through the drenched linen of Jack’s shirt. The impervious rage that had taken him was faded now; faded to a strange, dull viciousness. Pain was returning, in sickly waves, and he felt disconnected, exhausted; but was driven now by this one idea, this perfect ending to his revenge.

Bill’d sent the other four on ahead, to find Martingale and ready the boat. He stayed. He clearly did not trust Jack and Shaftoe, not one inch. Or maybe he did not trust Jack to Shaftoe’s care, given the current state of him; and Jack would definitely have to put him right on that one, some day. He’d never felt safer in his life than he did, here, with Jack Shaftoe at his side.

Lightning came again, and Jack’s hazy mind re-presented him with that vision of Shaftoe, hacking his way through those Spaniards like some merciless Norse deity, so fast and fierce that they barely had time to see death coming. He felt his lips curl into a twisty smile.

“There it is,” came Shaftoe’s voice, low in his ear; the warm gust of breath sent a nervy skitter of delight down Jack’s spine, temporarily driving away all those other encroaching pains. Shaftoe pointed, and Jack could just make out the spire of rock, and the half-hid cross, and the black pool, its surface pitted now by fat raindrops.

Bill crouched at the pool’s edge, though both Jack and Shaftoe—succumbing to the instincts of the deepest, most reptilian parts of their brains, which insisted that proximity was a Bad Idea—hung back.

“Don’t put your hand in there,” said Jack warningly. “’Tis all I did, I swear, and next thing I knew, it had me; and pulled me down, and I’d’ve drowned but for Jack here.” He had an idea he might’ve mentioned this already, but it surely bore repeating. He tightened his grip on Shaftoe’s shoulder as he said it, and Shaftoe took a step closer; glued himself even tighter along Jack’s side, from ankle on up, all the way up, and Jack exerted a gentle pressure back.

“The hole ain’t that big,” said Bill, doubtfully. “Are you sure it wasn’t just a partick’ly inquisitive sort of an octopus?”

“The day that I can’t pull a man from the grip of a fucking _octopus_ —” began Shaftoe, heatedly, and Jack interrupted him: “Fuck off, Bill, and chuck this in.” He proffered a finger from his pocket.

“Jesus Christ,” grumbled Bill, screwing up his handsome face. But he did as he was asked; the little white, crooked thing disappeared with a plop.

They all stood and watched.

“Nothing,” said Bill.

“’Course not,” said Jack. “That was only an _apéritif_ , mate. Here, give us your sword, Jack, I seem to’ve mislaid mine. Not that it was. Mine, I mean.”

Shaftoe handed over his blade, a heavy and intricate piece obviously made for a particularly large man. Jack shot him an enquiring look, and Shaftoe grinned nastily, and said, “Antonio’s.”

“How very _appropriate_ ,” said Jack happily, as he began to thread fingers onto it. It wasn’t easy; the damn Spaniard’s digits were bony things, and as soon as they were threaded any distance up the blade, the skin began to split, and several fell back to the rocks. Jack growled, and tossed them into the pool, and persevered, ignoring the incredulous disgust on Bootstrap’s face, preferring Shaftoe’s bemused, yet clearly entertained, scowl. Eventually, Jack achieved a kind of grisly kebob, with six pale fingers pointing impotently round.

He forced himself to step t’ward the pool, and crouched down beside it, hissing and groaning as various parts of his body complained vociferously. Shaftoe was right behind him, and took a hold of his right arm; Jack stifled a wail at the sharp pain of it. He turned to Shaftoe with a grin, and said, “Aye, I’d appreciate a good grip, but not there, mate.”

“Let me do it, then,” said Shaftoe, and did not wait to argue, but took the sword from Jack’s hand. Jack let him have it, and sat back from the edge. “An’ Bill, hang on to me,” Shaftoe instructed. He knelt at the edge of the water, and—tentatively at first—he dangled the sword into the pool.

“Just wave it around a little,” said Jack helpfully.

“I know how to fish,” growled Shaftoe, but he did as he was told.

“Nothing,” he announced, after a minute. “Shall I go down, and try to find that chain?”

“Give it a bit longer,” suggested Jack, whose stomach had contracted vilely at that thought.

There came a loud, echoing explosion from the bay, and three heads shot up, three faces were illuminated by the dull orange light of distant flames; the powder magazine on the _Furia_ had gone up, and as they watched, she split apart, masts toppling slowly and falling fast, and small black figures could be seen, throwing themselves into the water. There was no sign of fire aboard the _Pearl_ , all of whose masts were still upright, and Jack muttered to himself, _that’s my girl, oh yes, that’s my girl!_

“There,” said Bill, “no hurry, now, save the tide; come on, Jack, there ain’t nothing down here. Shall I—fuck!”

Fast as a whip, a thin purple tentacle had coiled itself up the sword, and round Jack Shaftoe’s wrist; and just as fast, Shaftoe’d released the hilt, and thrown himself backward. Several feet of wet muscular flesh followed him across the rock, before suddenly letting go and snaking back into the water, and the three of them scrambled back as though the owner of that tentacle was likely to launch itself up onto the reef at any moment. Jack’s heart was pounding, and his fingers were digging hard into Shaftoe’s shoulder.

“Right then,” said Jack Shaftoe. “No gold today.”

“No,” said Jack, faintly. “I think that can just stay there.”

“Although,” said Shaftoe thoughtfully, “Although, Jack, if we could come back with, say, a decent supply of that Greek fire…”

“ _No_ ,” said Jack and Bootstrap, in a rare piece of unanimity, and Jack could swear that Shaftoe actually pouted.

He stood up, though sadly not all of his blood seemed to agree with this plan; his face felt hot and prickly, and stars bounced and burst across his field of vision. Someone grabbed him, Shaftoe or Turner or both; and someone, oh definitely Jack Shaftoe, said low and urgent in his ear, “I’ve got you.”

Jack was no frail invalid, and had no wish to be treated as one, and yet, even when the moment of dizziness had passed, it was undeniably pleasant to have Shaftoe’s arm about him, holding him firm there, and he did not resist it. Instead, he pressed closer, and rolled his hip into Shaftoe’s in a way that brought out a gorgeous, incredulous chuff of laughter.

Turner wanted to know what was so damn funny; Shaftoe insisted it was nothing at all; and they set off down the reef to where Martingale and the rest waited with the gig.


	64. An Alchemical Prescription,  63

  
  
It was raining heavily now, and Jack lolled against Shaftoe's warm shoulder, mouth open -- all of a sudden he was ridiculously thirsty -- to drink down as much of the cool, fresh water as he could. The motion of the boat, propelled by those of the treasure-party least affected by Spaniards, rocks or irritable sea-life, was soporific, and Jack dearly longed to be in his bed, with Jack Shaftoe in his arms to keep him warm. If Shaftoe were so inclined, of course.

Why on earth wouldn't he be? Jack demanded of himself, irate at this little tendril of doubt. Must be the after-effects of that Physick, making him unsure of everything. Have to have a word with Enoch 'bout that. Though it was mightily effective in a pinch, Jack'd give him that much.

Shaftoe, with his arm steadying Jack against the pitching of the boat as they rounded the end of the reef, showed no hesitance t'wards Jack. His hand was spread wide against Jack's ribs, and every so often his fingers would stroke, or his thumb rub gently over, Jack's skin. As an antidote to the ripples and spikes of pain that burst randomly upon him, Shaftoe's touch was matchless. Jack craved more of it, much more: though perhaps he'd wait until they were both clean. He'd bathed Jack Shaftoe (Jack's earlier arousal surged anew, mocking pain and weakness, at that memory) with such tender care. High time, really, that Shaftoe returned the favour.

"What're you thinking?" said Shaftoe, low, up against Jack's ear, and Jack realised that he was smiling.

"Thinking about _you_ , Mr Shaftoe," he said cheerfully, not bothering to keep his voice down. "Thinking about getting you clean the other day."

Leaning on Shaftoe's shoulder, he could feel the other man's face heat; but Jack Shaftoe, for a wonder, did not protest, or push him away, despite an asthmatic chuckle from one of the oarsmen; Martingale, perhaps. Maybe there was hope for Shaftoe yet.

"Enoch'll want a good look at you," Shaftoe said firmly. "And he'll take care of that arm, too. Maybe you c'n get some laudanum off 'im, eh?"

"Get it yourself," retorted Jack, before remembering how very _affectionate_ the drug had made Jack Shaftoe, freshly mutilated and covered with gore. Oh, the fabulous savagery of the man! Twice, now, Jack'd watched him wreak havoc on some Spanish thug, all fierce and skilful and yet somehow detached; and was it so very wrong to find that savagery powerfully 'rousing, to want --

"C'mon, Jack, we're here," said Shaftoe, somehow getting to his feet and simultaneously helping Jack stand as the waves smashed the gig against the solid black hull. Above them loomed his _Pearl_ , his girl, quite unscathed and smelling deliciously of gunpowder, hot metal and burning rope. There were dark shapes clustered at the rail, crying his name and title, arms outstretched to catch him; someone threw down a net, to make the ascent easier. Yet, for all that, Jack wasn't sure he'd've managed it alone. Fortuitously, there was no need for him to attempt it. Bootstrap and Shaftoe half-carried him between them, and once his feet were on the black deck of his darling ship, he found the strength from somewhere to stand unsupported, albeit listing somewhat to the right.

"Captain Sparrow!" said Enoch Root, from somewhere; Jack was gratified to hear a note -- nay, a whole bloody chorus -- of concern in his voice. Enoch was in front of him now, beckoning someone close with a light, bending slightly to peer into Jack's face.

"What's happened to him?" he demanded.

There was a confused babble of voices from behind Jack as the treasure-party came aboard; it sounded rather like the inside of his head, and he swayed.

"Sea-monsters, drowning, Spaniards and whatever was in that black paper packet," said Jack Shaftoe loudly over 'em all, propping Jack up with a ready hand. " _I'd_ say he could do with a dose of laudanum, to --"

"Yes, yes," said Enoch abstractedly. "How much of the powder?"

"What d'you mean, how much?" said Shaftoe. "It was an Emergency. Besides, I din't --"

"You mean he took it all?" Enoch prised Jack's eyelid back, and Jack tried to focus on him. "That's interesting," Enoch was saying brightly. "Jack, can you ..."

But Jack was fairly sure he _couldn't_ , whatever it was. Anyway, Enoch's voice seemed to be growing fainter, as though he were walking away from Jack. Fine sort of doctor, that. Jack could not be bothered to make a fuss about it. He felt very sleepy, and the pain was getting distracting: and Shaftoe would catch him, eh?

* * *

Jack swore, and braced himself as Sparrow slumped against him: not that the pirate weighed all that much, but it was dead weight -- oh Christ, thought Jack, wishing back his ominous words -- and besides, it couldn't do any harm for the _Black Pearl_ 's crew to see how stalwart and dependable Jack Shaftoe could be, where their captain was concerned.

And, oh, he wanted to hold Sparrow close, wanted to fix him up and wash him down, wanted ...

"Bad enough if _you'd_ swallowed the whole lot of it, Jack," Enoch was saying. "Take him down to his cabin, eh?" He was casting an eye over the rest of the shore party, all soaked with rain (though the deluge had lessened since they'd left the reef) and, in several cases, with blood. If he noticed that fewer men had returned than set out, he gave no sign of it. "There are others needing my care, but I'll see to the captain first. Let me get my supplies: I'll meet you below."

Jack did not need telling twice. He scooped up Sparrow, staggering slightly, and negotiated the stairway and the passage without banging too many of Sparrow's extremities against the dark wood. Joe Henry, unasked, had found a lanthorn, and he lit Jack's way, and got the cabin door open for him.

Jack deposited Sparrow -- who'd become much heavier, perhaps with all the rainwater he'd soaked up -- on the cot. He hunkered down for a moment, Joe peering over his shoulder, and put a hand on Sparrow's throat, afraid that the corpus had become a corpse; but there was the faint warm billow of breath, and Sparrow, indeed, was smiling as carefree as a sleeping child.

"'Tis not usually a mortal dose," said Enoch, entering without ceremony. "Mr Henry, some hot water for your captain? Good lad."

"Usually?" Jack demanded, straightening. "You didn't mention that. And why's it worse for _him_ than it would've been for _me_ , eh?"

"Well, Jack, you've the constitution of an ox," said Enoch, motioning Jack out of the way. "That quantity would sustain three strong men in battle for a day."

"It certainly did the sustaining bit," noted Jack, smiling anew at the memory of Sparrow's uncharacteristic, though utterly appropriate, ferocity. "But you never told me it was three doses, Enoch Root; you're a dangerous man."

"And so, I'll warrant, was Jack Sparrow this evening," said Enoch. "Brace him while I get this shoulder straight, eh? And tell me everything that passed upon that reef."

Jack, feeling slightly ill at the memory of Sparrow's shoulder grinding into place, complied: he winced and looked away (but did not have a free hand to shield his ears) when Enoch yanked expertly on Sparrow's limp arm.

"There," said the alchemist, apparently untroubled by osteal noises. "I'll strap it tomorrow, but there's no need tonight -- unless he undertakes any _strenuous_ endeavours, of course. Ah, Mr Henry: set the water there, if you please."

Jack, endeavouring to look as though he hadn't a clue what Enoch was on about (a state of which he had considerable experience) busied himself reducing an elderly shirt to smaller rags. "Are the others -- you know, Burton and Cooper and the rest of 'em -- are they back yet?" he enquired.

Enoch frowned. "Not a sign of 'em," he said. "But the boat's still on the beach. Help me get Jack's coat off, and his shirt."

Jack did as he was told, trying not to worry about what might've befallen Burton and Cooper in their Cunning Disguises. Burton was a strapping lad: he and Cooper, and the rest of the shore party, could look after themselves. And Jack'd bet there were no tentacled horrors or vengeful Spaniards to bother _them_.

He could not help but stare at Sparrow, so still and silent under Jack's hands, searching for any sign of the animating spirit within: searching, and finding none. Sparrow's linen shirt was glued to his chest with man- and monster-blood. Jack peeled it off carefully, biting his lip at the coolness of the skin beneath. He could not look at Sparrow, even now, without remembering what it was to clutch him close, and kiss and caress; but there was more to it than that.

Enoch clicked his tongue at the scrapes and gashes that Sparrow'd sustained from his various encounters with the rocky reef, and the striped and circular welts that marked his throat and torso. He wiped away more of the blood and muck, and sucked in his breath when he saw the mess that Don Esteban'd made of Sparrow's chest. Jack thought it looked like _writing_ , but did not like to ask what it might say.

"Tell me everything that happened, Mr Shaftoe," said Enoch Root. "Everything that was said."

Jack complied. Remembering the proper order of things -- the cross, and then Felton's cry; the monster; the chain in the pit; Don Esteban and that Antonio -- did much to distract him from the sheer unnaturalness of a motionless, unresponsive Jack Sparrow. And surely it was better for Sparrow to sleep through Enoch's swift, businesslike attentions as the alchemist cleaned and stitched and salved. Jack's own skin stung where he'd scraped it against the rock, and his fingers were a little swollen from where Antonio had trodden on 'em; but it was nothing to how Sparrow would feel, on waking.

He indulged in a brief, distracting reverie concerning the various ways in which he might distract Sparrow from the ache and sting of his wounds. A soft kiss on his collar-bone, careful to mind the stitches in that shoulder-wound; perhaps the tickling passage of a fingertip or _tenfold_ two, down his side from armpit to hip-bone; Jack's mouth all gentle on --

"So it made him impervious to pain?" mused Enoch, dabbing a pungent ointment on the last of the weals. "I suspected as much."

"Quite impervious," said Jack, jolted from his itinerary, "and mad as a hatter, I swear it! Why, he --" Did Enoch need to know about the fulfilment of Sparrow's promise? Probably not. "-- was quite unlike himself," finished Jack, lamely.

"You've clearly come to know him better than I," said Enoch, smirking into his beard. He dipped a bloody bodkin in a bottle of spirits to cleanse it. "Now, Jack, I must tend to my other casualties: young Partridge'll lose that arm if it's not cleaned and splinted. Can I trust you to --"

"Of course," said Jack. "Wash him down and dose him up, eh?" He waited eagerly for Enoch to produce some new marvel of medicine. Or laudanum; laudanum would do (Jack told himself) at a pinch.

"No doses of anything," said Enoch repressively. "He'll need to sweat the drug out of his system before I'd risk another. And have a care, Jack: he may wake before he'd rid of it, and turn violent, or ..."

"Or?" queried Jack, working Sparrow's boot (the sole gouged and scuffed) off his limp foot.

Enoch shrugged. "Who can tell?" he said, rather vaguely. "I've never observed it in use 'til now." And, with his medicine-chest firmly tucked under his arm, he was out of the door before Jack Shaftoe could ask him what he meant.

Jack shrugged, and bent anew to the task of stripping Sparrow bare. He was tired himself, and keen to dose his sore places with rum from the bottle behind the bed, but he would not leave Jack Sparrow clad in sodden, sticky rags. Sparrow's skin was dull and clammy under Jack's hands, and Jack -- resisting the temptation to set the damp cloth aside, and put hands and mouth to Sparrow's slender, hard-muscled body -- worked quickly to wash the worst of the mess away before the water cooled. He patted Sparrow's skin dry, and used the last of the water on himself, stripping down and washing in the middle of the cramped cabin. Where was that rum? Ah, yes. Bottle in hand, he clambered into bed and pulled the covers over them both.

The lanthorn was flickering and failing, and outside the wind was rising again, howling in the bare rigging. Jack did not care about the weather now. He was here, naked, in Jack Sparrow's bed; there was good rum in his belly, and more in the bottle, and Sparrow's skin felt warm, now, against his own. Faintly, through the hull, he could hear waves breaking over the reef, over the monster-guarded gold, over the mutilated corpse of Don Esteban de Espinosa. All that was done with, and they'd both survived. And, more than ever, Jack wanted to make amends for the afternoon's sullenness and suspicion. _That'd_ make Sparrow feel better, he'd lay money on it.

Smiling at the thought of waking, Jack let sleep take him.


	65. impofperversity | An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter Sixty-Four

  


Changing from dream-state to waking, normally such a depressive experience, was not, for once, any such thing. For Jack’s dream, which had begun muzzily warm, and dark, and comfortably indistinct—little more than a collation of pleasurable sensations and a gently twisting sense of desire—had swelled and hardened and deepened; turned into a single-minded hot urge, that presented itself to him in the guise of Jack Shaftoe’s hard smooth shoulders, and intense blue gaze, and an oddly incorporeal _need_ that he nonetheless felt sure he was about to indulge, all the way to its natural conclusion. He writhed in the dream, and sighed; and then his eyes fluttered unexpectedly open, and the dream began to fade.

Which was, normally, highly disappointing; and yet, tonight Jack found that the real world more or less _was_ his dream. Here he was, in his own bed; surprisingly free from the pains that should, surely, be his current burden; beset, instead, by a delicious tumescence and a hot thump in his blood. And there, beside him, all along the length of him, lay the close warmth of, oh yes, Jack Shaftoe.

Bare Jack Shaftoe, as bare as Jack was himself.

Heaven.

Jack kept his eyes closed, and breathed a deep, satisfied breath. Air tingled all through him; he was widely, beautifully awake, and giddy with dreamy lust. He could smell linen, and some sharp unguent, over the usual layer of salt-and-powder-and-pitch-and-Pearl; he could smell Shaftoe, all warm and himself. More than that, Jack could smell all the varied and delicious Shaftoe-smells; the musty warmth of his exhalations, the damp straw of his hair, the clean, faint sweat-tang of his skin. The metal-and-leather sharpness of the hand that lay upon Jack’s shoulder. He could smell _everything_. He lay quiet, and concentrated on the needy hum of his body; all of him was terrifically aware, oddly, deliciously so. Shaftoe was breathing quiet, but Jack didn’t think he was sleeping. Could feel Shaftoe watching him, and he smiled, slowly, eyes still closed.

“Shhh,” whispered Shaftoe, as if lulling an infant back to sleep, and his long fingers patted Jack’s shoulder in a gentle heartbeat’s rhythm. It was so gloriously at odds with the Jack Shaftoe that he’d seen that evening, Jack Shaftoe all raging and lethal, that Jack’s smile split apart into a grin, and he chuckled, low in his belly. Low, where something else had leapt and twisted at the sound of Shaftoe’s voice.

“Shhh,” said Shaftoe again, and he stroked Jack’s hair. “Just a dream. Sleep, Jack; ‘t’aint yet morning. You can sleep. ‘Less you’re hurting -- are you all right? I can get Enoch, if you need --”

“That ain’t what I need,” said Jack, reaching over; curling a hand over Shaftoe’s bare hip. He could feel a pulse there, under the skin; feel muscle tighten as Shaftoe gave a low, breathy laugh.

“You can’t be serious, Jack. You were unconscious for hours, and you’re hurt in two dozen ways, and you wake in the middle of the night, and you want to… to… “ Shaftoe seemed to be casting around for the right word, and Jack was terribly tempted to give it to him, but restrained himself. Instead he merely hummed assent, and then said, “I feel fine, I tell you; oh, more than fine, to find you here, Jack Shaftoe, and you as awake as I am.” He reached up for Shaftoe’s hand, and tugged it down beneath the sheet, to illustrate his claim.

“I’m not sure I’m _quite_ as awake as you are,” said Shaftoe, a trifle faintly.

“S’pose you must be tired,” said Jack, letting an edge of petulant regret into his voice, as he trailed his fingers, gentle, teasing, over gorgeous expanses of Shaftoe-skin. He opened his eyes, and turned his head, and there, just inches away, were the strong, dark lines of Jack Shaftoe’s face. “You did the work of ten men, last night,” Jack said, licking his lips in recall. “P’rhaps you’re _too_ tired, now, to think of such things.”

“True enough, I did,” said Shaftoe immodestly, “and I should be; and yet, on the other hand… these hypothetical ten men…” he paused. He dropped his gaze for a moment, and his mouth twisted in amusement before he continued, “Well, these ten exhausted men ain’t lying naked beside _you_ , Jack Sparrow.”

Lust roared gleefully through Jack, and he rolled over onto his bandaged left shoulder. It should’ve hurt more than it did, and he took a moment to send up a silent thank you to Enoch Root for whatever evil smelling paste lay beneath that linen. “So I _am_ keeping you awake, then, am I Jack?” he asked with a cocked eyebrow, and a grin.

“Yes,” admitted Shaftoe, propping himself up on an elbow and staring down at Jack; his hair was loose, his face quite hidden in the curtained darkness of it, and Jack stared back, enjoying those long moments so very much that he wasn’t sure he could possibly enjoy himself any more if he tried; wasn’t sure, till Shaftoe, after a moment’s hesitation that nearly killed Jack with its sheer deliciousness, leant down and kissed him. Kissed him, all firm and careful, and how it stoked that conflagration in Jack’s gut! Even before Shaftoe’s lips parted, even before Jack’s tongue had infiltrated the heat of his mouth, he was hard as he’d ever been in his life, and his cock was nudging against Shaftoe’s, and Shaftoe was showing some enthusiasm an’ all.

Jack wriggled, and hummed, and threw a leg over Shaftoe’s; the sheet billowed at the motion, and wafted up more glorious smells, the smells of their warm bodies, and of a few of the activities that those warm bodies had undertaken previously in this very bed. Which made Jack quite _desperately_ horny, and he kissed Shaftoe with increasing abandon, pulling him close and rubbing against him like a determined cat.

(There was something quite utterly perfect about the way Jack Shaftoe kissed; the way they matched, slid round one another, bit and sucked. Jack’d noted that; some people, no matter how handsome (or pretty, as the case might be) simply couldn’t kiss right; it was all too clashy, or too fast, or too liquid, or not enough, and if you came across one of those people, there was not a damn thing that could be done about it. Kiss ‘em a thousand times an it please you (though it wouldn’t), and not one of those kisses’d ever be right. But ah, kissing Shaftoe was everything that a kiss should be, truly it was!)

But Shaftoe broke the kiss, with a last swipe of tongue. “I shouldn’t,” he said, with a rueful grin. “You’re hurt; Enoch’ll kill me, not to mention bloody Bill. You need rest.”

“Pah, I’ve had rest; wasn’t I just asleep, eh?”

“Not for long. You should sleep again.”

“My dear Mr Shaftoe,” said Jack regretfully, “I fear that ain’t a possibility at this point. Not now I’m all… _roused_.” He wriggled a little, to illustrate the point, and Shaftoe let out a sharp breath, and grinned, showing the crooked tooth that Jack found so oddly enticing; but he shook his head.

“No, Jack, not after all you’ve—”

“’Tis all in a day’s piracy,” said Jack with a dismissive tilt of his chin, though the fact of it was that he’d had very few days in his life quite like this one. “Come on, Jack… you know you want to… don’t you? Eh?” He licked at the hollow at the base of Shaftoe’s throat, and shivered as Shaftoe swallowed; played with the hardened nub of Shaftoe’s nipple between his finger and thumb, then bent his head to it.

Shaftoe arched and groaned, and then suddenly, all in a rush, he said: “Didn’t think _you’d_ want to, after today; after what I said, and then you’d not look at me, all day. And I’m sorry for it, Jack, if you don’t know that already; and I’ve no wish to argue with you, no more.”

The words were welcome, albeit entirely irrelevant in Jack’s current state of mind. He lifted his face from Shaftoe’s chest, and said, “Pax, Jack; ‘tis over and done with, and Christ knows you’ve done more than enough tonight to make up for it. I’d not be here, were it not for you.” And then he kissed Shaftoe some more, with his most persuasive, humming kiss. He pressed against him, till he could feel the hard hammer of their hearts one against the other, and then slid a hand down to Shaftoe’s hardness, muttering into Shaftoe’s open mouth, “’Nough talk, Jack; can we not _show_ one another just how ‘pologetic, grateful, et cetera, we are? Hmmm? Please? Mmm… please?”

Shaftoe mumbled something unintelligible, and pushed hard into Jack’s welcoming hand. Jack’s eyes rolled back, and his heart and his cock lurched in unison, and oh, God, he needed this.

*

It was obvious – completely, dreadfully obvious – that this was the other possible side-effect that Enoch’d glossed over. It was entirely ridiculous that a man who’d been horribly besquidded*, and all but drowned; been lacerated and otherwise wounded in a multitude of places; had his arm dislocated twice and his chest scored at sword-point; and who, what’s more, had overdosed on some exotic medicament, should wake from a few hours’ sleep in a state of enthusiastic satyriasis. It was clearly nothing more than a cruel chemical jape.

But wouldn’t it be still crueller to deny that poor fellow? thought Jack, rather admiring of his own philanthropy; and he almost managed to convince himself that it was this consideration, rather than his own jangling nerves, that made him thrust into Jack Sparrow’s clutching fist, and admit Sparrow’s determined tongue deep into his mouth. He was overwhelmed with the relief of it all; Jack Sparrow awake and (well, almost) himself, Jack Sparrow grinning and teasing and begging, Jack Sparrow wanting him just as Sparrow himself was wanted. Joy and relief and desire were flooding and rolling through him like laughter and fire in his blood, and Sparrow’s hot kiss, his strong fingered hand, were glorious, however inappropriate they might be.

And even if it were a mere Alchemical Reaction, even if by rights Sparrow should be woken only by aches and pains, why should it matter? Was this not something that Sparrow seemed to want just as much when he was entirely in his own mind?

A memory came to Jack as he groaned and pushed; the darkness of the hold, and Sparrow on his knees; and Jack recalled that he owed Jack Sparrow, and coupled this with the idea that he should, really, in some sense, be taking care of the man. Yes, that was it; Jack just needed to be a little more… _giving_ , and then this would be a perfectly reasonable course of action. Yes. So he pushed Sparrow gently over onto his back, though he didn’t break the kiss, and straddled him; and then moved Sparrow’s hand from him (having first duly steeled himself for the loss of it), gripped Sparrow firmly by the wrists, and pinned his arms to the mattress.

Sparrow seemed to take this as a sign that Jack wasn’t going to comply, and began a series of breathless entreaties that made Jack’s head spin; the sinuous body beneath him was writhing and thrusting and obviously, perfectly, desperate.

“Let me,” said Jack, “Let me…”

He did not mean to tease, to taunt, only to be careful and not inflict undue damage. And yet, in the most absolute and delicious way, Sparrow was coming sweetly and certainly undone under Jack’s hands and tongue. Every lick, every kiss, every stroke brought forth shivers and arching and pleas. By the time Jack’d wriggled his way down, carefully down, that muscled body, Sparrow was in a state of near-delirium; the first touch of Jack’s tongue to Sparrow’s cock was greeted with a blasphemous, half-shrieked whisper, and drawn up knees, and a wild thrust of hips. It was fabulous, and gorgeous, and almost _funny_ in its intensity, though in the very best of ways. “Shh,” Jack murmured again, striving to keep the laughter from his voice.

Sparrow must’ve heard it anyway, for he groaned and laughed in return, and said, “This ain’t no laughing matter, Mr Shaftoe; this is the sweetest torture, but torture it is, and please, oh please Jack, give me your mouth, put it on me…”

So Jack did; licked his lips, and ran them softly, once, over the head, and then took Jack Sparrow’s quivering prick in his mouth, and thought he would surely explode himself at the sound that came from Sparrow as he did, a gorgeous growling howl that was half Jack’s name and half animal nonsense. He thought of the things that Sparrow had done to him, down in the hold, and here, in the days past; and he swirled his tongue over the musky skin, and cupped a hand round Sparrow’s balls as, with one fingertip, he stroked the tender skin behind, letting his other hand sneak round to that lovely muscled arse that tensed and pushed up into his mouth.

Jack sucked, and licked, and slowly pulled back, and tried to set up some rhythm, though it was hard, with Sparrow bucking and mewling the way he was. He was gabbling at Jack, clutching at his hair, writhing beneath him; there were feet on Jack’s shoulders, pulling him forward, pushing him back; he was wild, frenzied, wriggling and laughing and crying out.

And Jack Shaftoe suddenly found himself thinking, _I have to fuck him, I have to; there’s never been any one, any girl, like this, and I’m mad if I don’t_ ; a thought which petrified him, even as it suddenly became the most obvious and true thing in the world, and he froze for a moment; froze, and swallowed. That motion was the one that undid Sparrow, who gasped, cried out all guttural, and dug his fingers sharply into Jack’s skull as he spent, and spent, and spent.

Jack’d been close to it himself, with the glory of Sparrow’s frenzy, and was pleased to be distracted from it by the very practical issue of avoidance of choking, or quite possibly of some unnatural form of _drowning_ (‘twould be most disappointing to drown, now, after all he’d been through recently, not to mention a dreadfully shaming way to die). So he swallowed, rapidly, and several times, as Sparrow shook and quivered and sighed his name; waited patiently for a moment, and then gently released him.

Sparrow’s elegant legs slid down, heavy and limp, and he sighed into the dark, _oh yes, oh yessss Jack_ as Jack kissed his way back up, happily ready for his own just reward.

But that was not to be; there was a final sigh as Jack kissed the hot delicate skin below his armpit, and then Jack Sparrow began, quite quietly but equally clearly, to snore.

This was disappointing, to say the least; but Jack decided to make the best fist he could of it (as it were) and look upon it as the fulfilment of his role as a responsible nursemaid. After all, he’d quite clearly and effectively ensured that _some_ shuteye was achieved by his patient, hadn’t he?

He lay up close, and touched himself, gently at first, till he was sure that Sparrow was very, thoroughly, heavily asleep; and only then did he let his mind wander freely over the taste of Jack Sparrow spending in his mouth, and the hot bright thought of wanting to fuck him, and the sense-scrambling deliciousness of hearing Sparrow muttering Jack’s name over and over; only then did he stroke himself quick and fierce, and bite his tongue to stay silent as he came in his own hand.

 

* © Viva_Gloria 2005   



	66. An Alchemical Prescription,  65

  
  
Jack Shaftoe startled awake, eyes wide open in the gloom of the cabin, and lay for a motionless moment trying to identify the stimulus that'd roused him so effectively.

Nothing. Nothing but the sound of waves against the hull, the noise (but not an especially _loud_ noise) of men walking, talking, working up on deck, the creak of the masts: the gentle, rasping snore (Jack smiled) of Jack Sparrow beside him.

Jack turned his head -- difficult, with Sparrow's face pressed into the hollow of his shoulder -- and squinted at the pirate. Had that all been a dream, that smoky, half-waking ... Jack's cock swelled at the memory of Sparrow's in his mouth, Sparrow half-crazed and wholly transported by his touch, writhing and twisting and grabbing and swearing, utterly consumed with lust. Lust for _me_ , thought Jack smugly. He could still taste Sparrow's seed, strong and acrid, in the far recesses of his mouth. Not a dream, then.

And there'd been, there'd been ... Jack's mouth opened soundlessly, and he stared up at the black ceiling. He remembered, full and immediate and urgent, his resolution to fuck Jack Sparrow: and, far from seeming ridiculous or disgusting in the warm sunny light of morning, that desire was a bright and shining pinnacle of ambition in Jack's mind. His prick swelled more at the thought.

But Sparrow still slept, and really 'twas no wonder, what with the drugs and the fighting and all the sheer _doing_ of yesterday. He looked much younger, asleep, and so very much less _fierce_ than he'd been last night, transformed and sustained by Enoch's fascinating Physick, out on the reef in the dark, soaked and bloody and (Jack's left hand throbbed) hacking away at Don Esteban's corpse. There was no sign of all that savagery and blood-lust on Sparrow's face now. A shame, really: and yet Jack gazed at him still, heedless of the crick in his neck. Sparrow's face was lovely -- not in the way a woman might be said to be lovely, but lovely in and of itself -- and oh, the promise of that mouth, full lips parted to reveal good teeth and gold; the defencelessness of those long lashes; the foppery of those ridiculous beard-braids, which Jack longed to feel scratching against his thighs again.

Oh, Christ: he couldn't stay abed a moment more and not molest Jack Sparrow, forcing him to a rude (a _very_ rude, if entirely appreciative) awakening. And Sparrow needed to sleep. But perhaps just a single moment ... Jack's hand traced down, a thistledown touch, to where the Spaniard's sword had fretted and circled on Sparrow's chest. There was a bulky wad of bandaging on Sparrow's shoulder, and hadn't Enoch said he'd strap up that other arm today?

Jack was aware of a faint, melancholy emotion, and after some consideration identified it as disappointment. Jack Sparrow wouldn't be up to anything at all strenuous for a while: and Jack had some very specific experiments in mind.

It wasn't as though Jack had no mental _ammunition_ , of course, for any solitary activities he might undertake. The last few days had supplied him with a lifetime's-worth of vividly erotic images, more inspirational than any drawing Jack'd ever seen. Sparrow's mouth closing on Jack's cock; Sparrow's face, as Jack returned the favour; Sparrow helping him undress, washing him, so careful and tender ...

There was another loud noise, and this time Jack identified it as a man's voice -- Bootstrap, it might be -- shouting. Jack could not make out the words; but if there was something to shout about, he'd better get out of bed, and let Sparrow sleep peacefully.

Oh, it was difficult to ease himself away from Sparrow's warmth, to pull the sheet carefully back over the other man. Sparrow stirred and mumbled, something about a bear, and Jack stood stock-still, holding his breath: but the pirate subsided once more into sleep, no sign on his face of discomfort or dismay.

Jack ransacked Sparrow's sea-chest, as quietly as he could, for clean trews and a shirt that was not covered with blood and muck: once dressed, he took himself up on deck.

"Good morning, Jack," said Enoch, lowering the glass from his eye. "How are you today? And how's our patient? You were both sleeping deeply when last I looked."

Jack flushed, even now, at the thought of being _observed_ in Captain Jack Sparrow's bed: but really, there was no point in pretending that things were otherwise, and Enoch did not seem remotely concerned by his new-found taste for ... well, for Jack Sparrow.

"Well enough," he said. "Jack's asleep, and seems comfortable: free of pain, at any rate. What's up?" There was hardly anyone on deck; a few blokes over at the bow, peering towards the island. Jack belatedly recalled the picnic party. "Any sign of the others? Burton and Cooper and their lot?"

Enoch was frowning. "They didn't respond to the signal," he said.

"What about the Spanish?" Jack gestured at the bay, where assorted flotsam and charred timber danced on a gentle swell. "Any survivors?"

"Not that I've seen," said Enoch. "It seems to have been a rather undermanned expedition: no doubt Espinosa was recruiting in haste, and had no time to assemble a full complement. But there's still, if you recall, the _Spanish_ party that went ashore."

"So Burton and Cooper, and the rest of 'em, could've run into trouble?"

"It's possible," said Enoch. "Mr Turner's just taken the other boat ashore, in search of them."

"May I see?" Jack reached for Enoch's telescope. He could not make out a thing: the man must have dreadful sight, 'twas a wonder he could see what was in front of him, thought Jack, fiddling with the glass until the blur coalesced. Two boats, not far above the water-line. The tide was coming in: indeed, must've been, and gone, already, and carried away all the corpses on the reef. Jack shivered at the thought of what still lurked out there, beneath the black rock.

He could see the _Black Pearl_ 's gig, the one they'd taken over to the reef last night. Bootstrap, distinctive in a strikingly vile green shirt, was in the bow; was leaping out, splashing through the surf, to pull the boat up onto the sand. There were another six or seven men with him, their weapons glittering in the morning sun. No sign of anyone else on the strand, though; no sign of Burton-as-Shaftoe, Cooper-as-Sparrow. The thought of his doppelgänger dead under a Spanish sword made Jack shiver again.

"Taking a fever, Mr Shaftoe?" said Enoch, reclaiming the telescope.

"No," said Jack. "Just ... just wondering what's become of 'em."

"Let us hope," said Enoch rather thinly, "that they found more fortune than did _your_ party."

"I told you," began Jack heatedly, "the treasure was there: but guarded, Enoch, by something I've never seen the like --"

From the jungle above the beach came, crisp and clear and distant, the sound of gunfire.

* * *

Jack was dreaming, dreaming of Jack Shaftoe: dreaming of Shaftoe's incendiary mouth on him, of Shaftoe's sure strong hands (no less strong for being nine-fingered) on his thighs, his arse, his balls; of Shaftoe's wondrous cock in Jack's mouth, and nudging against his thigh, and pressing ...

But _that_ detail, at least, marked this as mere dream: and, understanding that, he understood also that various other highlights of the dream had been _memory_ , memories of that strange blissful awakening in the small hours of the night.

Oh, it was all coming back to him: and Jack, regrettably, was coming back to himself, coming back to his waking body. Little constellations of pain flared, one by one, as he stretched out in the empty cot, blinking sleep from his eyes. Where was Jack Shaftoe?

From the quality of the light, and the way it was bouncing off the water beneath the portholes rather than pouring straight into the cabin, Jack could tell that this was morning, albeit rather later than he'd usually have woken. From the quality (and quantity) of his pains, he had the perfect excuse for staying abed: though, had he a choice in the matter, he'd've demanded Shaftoe's company. A visit from Enoch, and a few samples of his pharmacopoeia, wouldn't go amiss, neither.

Jack catalogued his injuries. Right shoulder all rubbery, and aching to high heaven: yes, he'd dislocated it, had he not, under the water. And hadn't someone manhandled him? Oh, no, that'd been Jack Shaftoe, following orders even while he complained of 'em in a way that Jack found obscurely flattering. Left shoulder (thought Jack, trying not to be sidetracked by concupiscent thoughts of Mr Shaftoe's warmth, strength, eyes, mouth et cetera) ... left shoulder stinging with a wholesome throb: a sword-cut, no doubt, though he couldn't exactly recall the blow. Bandaged and salved, anyway, and like to knit without complications.

His chest stang and burned, and he pulled down the sheet to examine the cause. Some of it, for sure, was abrasion from the evilly ragged reef-rock. There was a nasty gash across his ribs, and a series of shallow, curving cuts -- scratches, really, though a couple were oozing blood, and they all stang like raw fire -- all across his chest, one loop nearly crossing a nipple, like ... like ...

Almost like writing. Almost like _letters_.

An anaesthetic flare of red rage shot through Jack's entire body. Don Fuckin' Esteban, with his small-sword and his nasty humour and the coldness in his eyes: oh, Jack remembered _that_ all right. But his body did not seem interested in (or capable of) sustaining the rage, already fading to scarlet and then to the washed-out colour of blood in salt water. And besides, he'd had his revenge, hadn't he? Had avenged himself and Jack Shaftoe?

_Tenfold_ , whispered someone, hoarsely. After a tortuous process of elimination, Jack concluded that it was himself, voice roughened by near-drowning and near-throttling and near-everything. Wonderful that he could speak at all. And speaking of speaking ...

He tried to call out, to have someone bring him the necessaries: medicine, food, drink, Jack Shaftoe. Christ, it hurt to shout: he had to resort to banging on the bulkhead before the door cracked open.

"How're you doing, Captain?" said Martingale, eyes wide at the sight of Jack bedridden. There was a livid bruise over half his face, but otherwise he seemed unscathed. "Can I fetch --"

"Aye," croaked Jack. He cleared his throat. "Rum, and something to eat: an' have Davies knock up one of those brews of his, eh?"

"Davies -- Davies is dead, sir," said Martingale shakily.

Jack looked away from the lad's face, cursed himself for forgetting. Davies had been with him for years; but last night he'd left the man unmourned and all but forgotten, down on that cursed reef in the dark. "Of course," he said. "We'll have a wake for 'im, eh?"

But Martingale still looked shaky.

"What is it, mate?" demanded Jack, coughing as he tried to sit up. "What's happened?"

"Burton and Cooper and all that lot," said Martingale, "they ain't back yet, and Mr Turner's gone to find 'em."

Jack scowled. "Damn it," he said. "'Twas only ever meant to be a wild-goose chase to give the Spanish grief. ... No sign of any survivors from the _Furia_ , eh?"

"No, sir," said Martingale promptly. "There weren't that much of a watch left, and Picken says 'e didn't see anyone in the water, after."

"Good riddance," said Jack. "I've had enough of the Spanish, lately. Now, Mr Martingale: fetch me some rum, eh? And somethin' to eat, assuming anyone on this vessel has the slightest idea of how to produce a repast suitable for human consumption. And I'd welcome a visit from Mr Root, if --"

"Enoch's on his way," said Jack Shaftoe's voice from behind Martingale. Martingale flinched, and blushed, and got out of (though not very _far_ out of) Jack Shaftoe's way.

"How you doin', Jack?" said Shaftoe, all nonchalant and breezy -- for Martingale's benefit, Jack deduced, since there was heat enough in Jack Shaftoe's smile to fuel a veritable _manufactory_ of Rumour. But there was something else too, something less flattering, less wholly fixed on Jack, in Shaftoe's face.

"Never mind me, mate," said Jack urgently, trying to sit up. (Shaftoe, as he'd hoped, hastened to help.) "What's afoot, eh?"

Shaftoe exchanged a swift, wordless glance with Martingale, then fixed his eyes on Jack once more.

"They're coming back," he said. "They're on their way."


	67. impofperversity | An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter Sixty-Six

  


The boats were halfway back, just broaching the long gentle surfline, by the time Jack made it up on deck. It’d been an unpleasantly painful process to get there, not much aided by his own haste, and not improved by Shaftoe’s argumentative attempts to get him to stay abed, either.

It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the fact of Shaftoe’s warm (hot!) concern; to hear Jack Shaftoe say, determinedly, “To bed, Jack, and right now,” was surely one of life’s sweeter gifts, and it was a hard, a _very_ hard request to ignore, in and of itself. But, all those thoughts aside, it did nothing for Jack’s good temper to have any man (no, not even Shaftoe) tell him what he should be doing aboard his own ship, and still less to have that man do so in front of a stripling like Martingale; and to add insult to injury, bloody Martingale could not help himself from nodding and oh-yessing and hovering about Jack Shaftoe as if one of the bloody archangels were speaking in that deep London drawl.

Jack’d abandoned his attempt to get a shirt on, in the face of a complete lack of cooperation from his supposed helpers; instead he wore his second-best coat (which—having given its all in his service—had been retired from general usage some time ago) draped over his shoulders, and an ancient pair of linen trews, soft with advanced age, thin almost to the point of transparency; there wasn’t a lot left in his wardrobe, after the ravages of Jack Shaftoe (who’d clearly had a go through this morning, and incidentally shown better taste than Jack would’ve given him credit for in his selections) and the events of the past week.

Cooper still had his hat. He missed it.

Now, as he leant on the gunwale, surrounded by hovering men, all querying his state of health, he scanned the two approaching boats for either the hat, or its borrower; but could see no sign. There were some men sitting helpless in those boats, cradling hurts; one lay across the lap of a broad-shouldered fellow whose face was hidden, his back turned to the ship. But it looked like—

“Who’s Burton got there?” said Shaftoe, standing beside Jack, and a little behind him; just close enough that Jack could feel his warmth; just close enough that he stood a little straighter, despite all his aches and twinges, to prove he was no invalid. There was a note of dismay in Shaftoe’s voice, and it was clear enough, from the slow movements of the men, from the black-red stains upon their clothing, from the gunfire they’d heard earlier, that something nasty had occurred. The gathered company up on deck were still and quiet, helplessly watching bad news arrive.

Bill Turner’s gig came aside first, and he was first on deck.

“Stand back, make room,” he said, tiredly, motioning the men back, “and where’s Root?”

Jack came forward. “Quickly, Mr Turner: what’s amiss? What happened, who’s hurt?”

“They were ambushed,” said Bill, as he leant down over the gunwale to haul someone up; and, “Cooper,” ran round ‘em in a hushed mutter, as that poor gentleman appeared, lolling over the shoulder of a pallid, sweating Burton.

Root pushed through the gathered men, and knelt beside Cooper where Burton had lain him on the deck. Jack was not sure whether the man was dead or alive; his normally swarthy face was pale and grey, where it was not striped darkly with blood that’d poured down from a vicious blow to his head. His hair, that Jack’d loosed and tangled only yesterday, was matted with it; his shirt, and Jack’s best coat, stained all rusty with it. A smell of iron and earth rose from him.

Jack crouched down beside Burton, ignoring the varied complaints of his body, and with some effort managed to put an arm about the lad’s shoulders; the motion made his own coat slide to the deck, and there came a hiss from behind him as someone noted the extent of his captain’s injuries. Jack ignored that, too.

“Enoch?” he asked, low; Root was bending over Cooper, listening against his bloody chest, and then carefully palpating his skull, and frowning heavily.

“Tell me what happened,” Enoch Root said, calm and level, to Burton.

“They—they jumped us,” said Burton, obviously making an heroic effort to keep his voice steady. “Up in the hills; we’d found a cave, seemed like the place the Captain marked on the map he gave us; we were turnin’ back downhill, not wanting to take ‘em there... we knew they were behind us, and we made a great noise so’s they couldn’t mistake but we were comin’ their way. So they sent a handful of men back downhill to make us think they’d fled from us, and the rest waited in the forest, the bastards; and Ben was walkin’ ahead, just as you do, Captain” (the words were like a dirk in Jack’s heart) “walkin’ ahead, and… and…” He stopped, and sat there very still, head down and eyes closed, trying so very hard to compose himself.

“Henry, get me water, I can see nothing here; Burton, tell me what you can of the blow,” said Enoch, so very gently. Jack felt Burton convulse under his arm.

“From above,” he whispered, “and behind, the stinkin’ wretches, lyin’ in wait. He din’t even see it coming.”

“Did he fall into this state immediately?”

“He, he cried out, and then he fell, and he ain’t opened his eyes since; but then we were fighting ‘em, and I shot the one that’d been in the tree; and while the others held ‘em back, I picked Ben up, and took him back to the cave, and there we were pinned, till Bootstrap and the boys came this mornin’.”

(Jack glanced up at Bill, questioningly; Bill merely dragged an indicative finger across his throat. Good.)

“Will he…” said Burton, and stopped, and swallowed, and finally managed, “Will he come back?”

“I cannot say, yet,” said Enoch, though he flicked a flat grey glance up at Jack, and Jack’s heart sank still further.

“Course he will, mate,” Jack said. “For he’d you, to care for him, didn’t he? And now he’s got Enoch here, and Enoch’s a physician of rare repute, eh? Not to mention a man with a perfickly wonderful supply of medicaments. He couldn’t be in better hands.”

Burton took Cooper’s hand in his own two great paws, and held it so tight his knuckles whitened under the dull blue patina of ink.

Jack bowed his head, and no-one spoke as Enoch completed his examination, aided by the water that Henry brought him; he cleaned away the worst of the gore from Cooper’s forehead, and Burton made a retching, sobbing sound as a great gash was revealed, and a white glimmer of bone could be seen. One of Cooper’s legs twitched, reflexively, and Burton scowled murderously at Enoch Root and shouted, “You’re hurting ‘im!”

“Mr Burton!” said Jack, calmly reproving. “I’ll have none of that. Enoch Root’s your mate’s best chance, and you must trust him, you hear me?”

After a moment, “Aye,” said Burton in a whisper; “My apologies, Mr Root.”

“None required,” said Enoch. “Does anyone else need attention, before I… consider the treatment alternatives for Mr Cooper here?” He looked up and about; the shore parties were all aboard now, and the tethered boats knocked hollowly against the side of the _Pearl_. Several of the men were bloodied, but they shook their heads. “It ain’t nothin’,” said one. “Sharpy here can see me right, and Red don’t need but a stitch or six, neither. Sort out our Cooper.”

“Very well. Who’s your carpenter?” said Enoch.

“Mostly, me,” came a suspicious voice from the back.

“Bring me an awl, if you please; a bradawl will do; and a brace and bit.”

“What?” shouted Burton, quite forgetting his apologies of a moment past. “You cain’t—”

“I must,” said Enoch, “if he’s to have any chance.”

“I’ll not bloody let you touch him!” shrieked Burton, red with rage, and he shrugged off Jack’s embrace and gathered Cooper up into his arms, though Enoch was imploring him not to. The carpenter looked from one to the other, and did not do as he was bid until Jack gave him a fierce frown and a mouthed _Go!_.

“Lay him down,” Jack told Burton, sharp and imperious, and Burton shot him a look of utter hatred.

“Lay him down,” said Jack again, “or I sh’ll have to have you taken below, Burton.” He hoped that the desperate thump in his heart could not be seen in his expression; knew he was demanding that Burton hand over his lover to a bloody operation that might well kill him. But he trusted Enoch Root. If Root said it should be so, then…

Burton stared at him for a long, horrible moment, but then Enoch put a hand on Burton’s, and said, “If you wish to hold him, John… it would be a great help to me, if not too much of a trial to you.”

“I… it ain’t never bin a trial,” said Burton, in a thin and cracking voice.

Jack closed his eyes at the sound of it, and there in the dark could see John Burton when he came aboard the _Black Pearl_ , little more than a great fresh-faced boy, all broad shoulders and easy blushes, and innocent as the day was bright. So quiet, and shy, and only seeming at ease when they could find some job for his great brute strength.

Till Ben Cooper turned up, in Tortuga, when they were several men down. Damned if he hadn’t grown up not ten miles from young Burton; soon as Ben was aboard, all Burton’s west country burr returned, and the two of ‘em were inseparable in no time.

Jack’d known almost to the day when that friendship turned to something more. That week when Burton’s face bore a shocked and beatified expression, of horrified delight and strange new confidence. That week when Cooper’s smile fin’lly emerged from wherever it’d been hiding, and he started to whistle when he was up in the rigging. And neither of ‘em had been the same since.

Jack could not imagine Cooper without Burton. Burton without Cooper. He was dizzy and sick with this; with the horror that always accompanied the possible loss of a man, and which was amplified when that man’d been acting on your own orders, and here—oh, here it was amplified again, for this man had been taking Jack’s own place.

_Ben was walkin’ ahead, just as you do, Captain._

“Here ye go,” said a voice, and Jack opened his eyes to see the ship’s carpenter pushing through the circle of men, and proffering his tools.

*

From the moment he’d recognised Burton’s hunched back in the gig, Jack Shaftoe’d been sure, in the deep pit of his stomach, that the worst had happened; had been unsurprised when he recognised poor Ben Cooper, under all that blood. Still wearing Jack Sparrow’s clothes.

He hung back, when Sparrow pushed forward to Burton’s side, even though he wanted, oh wanted so very much, to be right there. He saw Sparrow turn his face away and grimace as he put his arm over Burton, and knew what that gesture must’ve cost him, and he winced with the rest of ‘em when Sparrow’s coat fell away and showed them all, in the cruel light of day, the marks of last night’s adventures, every scabbed scrape and purpling bruise. He felt a monster for having lusted after that poor beaten body in the night; having given in to its pleas and demands. He should’ve known better. Had he no control, where Jack Sparrow was concerned? Well, he could bloody well show some now.

So Jack hung back; hung back, and oh, it was the best place to be. He could see poor Burton’s face, all streaked with dirt and sweat and fear, and it was completely, completely impossible not to compare this scene, right here, with the scene of Sparrow-and-Shaftoe that these two fellows had played out yesterday.

Yesterday’s scene was all fine fun; all lust and laughter. But today’s…

Oh, today’s was the other end of that equation. Today’s was the inevitable end of that little play, even if the intervening time was never so pleasant; _this_ was what happened to pirates, and what could so easily have happened to odd and wondrous Jack Sparrow, and the thought of _that_ made Jack’s blood run all hot and curdled.

And as if all that weren’t bad enough, then bloody Enoch had to get all _interventionist_ about it.

Jack’d seen this type of thing done once, when he and Bob were hanging about with John Churchill’s men, and of course’d had to watch. ‘Twas highly entertaining, in parts. But the barber-surgeon’d been over-enthused, not to mentioned completely stotious—as had his audience, in fact—and it turned out that you only had to jog the fellow’s elbow a very little to render the entire experiment quite pointless, and not entertaining at all.

He turned away as Enoch sent men scurrying about for various other supplies and implements, and looked down over the side, into the boats which knocked gently against the hull. In their haste to get aboard, the men’d left all manner of things down there still, and Jack tut-tutted, mentally; careless, that was. Should never leave armaments floating about unattended. Should certainly never leave a boat with its oars, that was just asking for it. Should never leave gold lying about, neither.

_Gold?_

Jack grunted to himself, and held up a hand against the dazzling sun; but he was not mistaken. There it was; a gold coin, glinting in the half inch of dirty brine in the bottom of the boat.

So unimportant, now, compared to the scene playing out not a dozen steps away; and yet, it beckoned Jack’s attention, and he seized upon it as the perfect distraction. He grabbed the arm of one of the shore party, tall thin Isaiah Staines with his missing eye, and said, low, “What’s that, mate? Where’d that coin come from?”

Staines glared at him for asking such a question at such a time, but Jack faced him down. “Found it in the cave, up in the foothills; right where Cap’n Sparrer put that mark on Cooper’s map,” muttered Staines, and he shrugged his way out of Jack’s grip.

“How many? Just the one?”

“Fuck’s sake, Shaftoe, what does it matter, now?”

“Not a whit, I grant you, but d’you think you’re helping him with your gawking?” demanded Jack in a hoarse whisper.

Staines sighed and rubbed a hand over his dirty face. “Just the one. On a rock ledge, by the entrance, all right?” And he turned away, folding his arms in a clear message.

Martingale, still beside Jack, looked all confused and curious. “Jack? What’re you thinking?”

“Fool’s vault,” said Jack. “Want to come?”


	68. An Alchemical Prescription,  67

  
  
The smell of blood was making Jack's empty stomach lurch, and the fierce morning sun dizzied him: but he was Captain still, and he would not turn away when one of his men lay suffering under the surgeon's knife. Not least because Cooper, lying there so still and grey on the black deck, was still in some wise Jack himself: 'twas Jack's coat and shirt all stained with his blood, Jack's hat (lost now) that hadn't cushioned the terrible blow. That wound was meant for me, Jack thought, and his blood ran chill.

Henry had fetched a brazier, so that Enoch might cleanse his instruments. The flames flickered in the sunny air: Jack could hardly see them, and their heat evaporated into the salty air. How he longed for Jack Shaftoe's warmth, though there was little bloody chance of Shaftoe being especially comforting, not in front of the company: never mind that they were more intent on gawking at their mate's bare bones. Jack looked around for Shaftoe anyway -- his mere presence would be some solace -- and found him approaching, all determined, with Martingale trailing behind like an especially affectionate hound.

Jack set his teeth, and hoped that Shaftoe would see in his face how dearly he was needed now.

"There's gold ashore, they say," Shaftoe informed him without preliminaries. "Thought Martingale and meself might go and fetch it back -- we're no use here, only get in the way."

There was a murmuring amongst the men, but Shaftoe paid it no heed. He was talking quickly, and -- after one appalled glance at where Enoch sat, testing the point of a great iron bradawl against the ball of his thumb in a very determined manner -- his gaze was fixed firmly on Jack.

"There's gold in that cave, Staines told me so," he went on, "an', Bootstrap, din't you say you'd seen off all the rest of the bloody Spanish?"

"Aye," said Bootstrap. There was a long gash on his arm, and his shirt was rendered less offensive by the blood that darkened it. "Aye, we got the rest of 'em. They weren't expecting anyone else; all lounging around, they were, waiting for our lot to come out."

Shaftoe hunkered down next to Jack, and laid his hand -- a rare encomium -- on Jack's shoulder. "I can't stand to watch," he said more quietly, nodding his head at Cooper, at Burton. "Let me go, and gain some good out of it all, eh?"

"Very well, Mr Shaftoe," said Jack stiffly, fighting back the urge to put his hand on Shaftoe's and coax him into staying. "There's not a thing you can do for poor Cooper right now, not 'til Enoch's done his work: but have a care, won't you?"

"Sure I will," said Shaftoe warmly. He gave Jack a long, intense look: his eyes were vividly blue in the sunshine, and Jack longed for nothing more than to stare back, lose himself in that fathomless blue, and leave all this -- blood, injury, Cooper's grey skin and the sound of Enoch sharpening some cruel instrument -- far behind him. But Shaftoe wouldn't welcome such affection, and Jack did not have the strength, just now, to argue the matter.

"No running off into the woods, Mr Shaftoe," he said, summoning a smile from somewhere to show it was a jest, "though if you happen across a wild pig or two, I wouldn't say no to a nice bit of roast pork."

There was more muttering, and Jack caught Davies' name. Oh, hell: the cook had fallen to a Spanish ball, and here was Jack, talking of food and feasting! This whole damned quest was fraught with death and doom. Whatever Shaftoe found, whatever forgotten treasure lay hidden at the island's heart, could not balance their loss.

"Aye, Captain," said Shaftoe, clearly oblivious to Jack's melancholy thoughts. He squeezed Jack's shoulder, and stood, leaving a fading hand-shaped warmth. "We'll be back by dusk, latest." His gaze fell on poor Cooper, and on Enoch calmly whetting a little silver blade. "I hope," he said, and fell silent: nodded, and turned away.

Jack did not watch as Shaftoe collected armaments and ammunition; did not lift his head as Burton, all pale under the muck and blood, brought the rolled map out of his own shirt and handed it to Martingale; tried not to listen to the sound of two men scrambling down the netting into the gig. He watched as Burton braced himself against the side of the ship, turning Cooper gently so that the sunlight fell sharp and bright on that monstrous welling wound. Watched, and tried not to wonder whether Jack Shaftoe might've held _him_ so, had their play been truth and Jack himself so damaged.

"Back, all of you," said Enoch Root. Joe Henry had brought him his medicine-chest, and he sprinkled the wound with a clear, greenish fluid. Jack thought he heard it hiss where it touched the white gleam of bone. "Back!" said Enoch again: and this time the men obeyed him, shuffling away across the deck until they stood, close-packed as a carnival crowd, a clear six feet from Cooper's supine form.

"Hold him tightly, there," directed Enoch, and Burton set his broad hands (Jack tried not to think of Shaftoe's hands on him) at either side of Cooper's head.

Enoch sat back and breathed deeply, once, twice. He did not meet Jack's eye, nor anyone else's. He mumbled some prayer or incantation, his lips barely moving: took up something ("a chisel," exclaimed someone, "he's using a chisel on 'im!") and passed it through the fire, and set it to the gaping wound.

The stench of burning hair overlaid that of blood: the men stood still, hardly breathing, and into the creaking silence of the ship came faint, wet sounds that roiled Jack's stomach anew. He would not look away: he did not, even when Enoch reached forward with a clean hand and came away with his fingers red, gripping something white. He set aside the chisel and took up a knife, and Jack watched -- and forced himself to focus -- as the tangled black hair and the skin beneath it parted from the raw flesh beneath.

Someone swore: someone besought the help of Mary and all the saints: young Joe Henry stepped from his place at Enoch's shoulder and vomited, quickly and neatly, over the rail. Jack did not spare a glance: could not stop watching the consequence of his clever, clever plan.

* * *

"Why's there this cross on the map, then?" Martingale had asked as Jack Shaftoe, all ajangle with weaponry, climbed down into the boat after him.

"I'll tell you the whole tale, if you row," said Jack craftily.

Martingale did not seem to mind. He grinned at Jack, and sat himself down, and used an oar to push the gig away from the _Black Pearl_ , out into the swell. "No problem, Mr Shaftoe," he said.

Jack was a little ashamed of the rapidity with which his spirits lifted, away from that gory deck. Poor bloody Cooper, laid low by such a wound! Aye, and poor Burton too: Jack'd seen his face, and for all his reservations about their, their _friendship_ , he couldn't help but feel sorry for the fellow, seeing his mate -- his _lover_ \-- so deathly pale and mortally wounded. Couldn't help thinking that, but for the grace of God, _he_ might've been hanging over a slim, immobile form, anxiously pressing its hand, feeling its pulse weaken and judder beneath his finger ...

It ain't the same thing at all, Jack told himself. He did not look back at the ship, where poor Jack Sparrow was overseeing Enoch Root's macabre experiment. At least Jack wasn't there to watch: at least, if it went wrong, there'd be no blame falling on him.

"So what about this map, eh?" demanded Martingale: and Jack, thankful to be recalled to the moment, settled himself more comfortably in the stern (it was not very far to the beach, but there was a stiff current bearing towards the headland), and prepared to recount the tale.

"There's a secret message writ upon this map," he said. "It says --"

"How'd you find it? Howâ€™d you know to look?"

Jack's Imp presented him with a full-on sensory memory of that discovery: of Jack Sparrow writhing shirtless upon the unfurled map, his hand on Jack's yard, Jack's on his, writhing and groaning and _hot_. He coughed, and said, "Application of heat, mate: perfectly sound experimental technique."

"Oh yes," said Martingale, giving Jack an odd look. "Go on, then."

Jack recited the words that'd been scribbled there so secretly -- no need to reveal to Martingale that it was not Jack himself who'd actually _read_ them -- and summarised their unravelling of the four locations thus encoded, basking in Martingale's admiration as he blithely claimed credit for Bill and Enoch's insights.

"So we'd three points, and we _thought_ we'd found the fourth: Pointe de Vierge," and Jack turned to gesture southward, hoping that the thrilling lurch in his belly (oh, Christ, his cock sliding moistly 'gainst Sparrow's arse; how he wished ...) did not reach any visible part of his being.

"Thought you'd found it?" puzzled Martingale, resting the oars as the little boat was swept forward over the surf line. "But --"

"That's what the map shows," said Jack gruffly. "The place where those two lines -- Pointe de Vierge to the Esperance River, Pointe Tortue to Canary Bay -- cross. That's where that cave is, where ..." No, don't think of Cooper: don't think of the jungle at night, and the clash of swords, and fleeing through the darkness. "That's where they found the gold."

Jack had pocketed the coin that'd shone so brightly in the bilge, in case it should be lost: he pulled it forth, now, and tossed it in the air, and Martingale watched, rapt, as it gleamed in the sunlight.

"An' there's ... more?" he managed, rowing hard to carry the gig t'ward the next wave-crest.

Jack shrugged. The beach was very close now: he returned the piece -- a big, old-fashioned thing, bearing a heathenish device that he did not recognise -- to its hiding-place, and got ready to leap out into the surf.

"Might be," he said. "Oft-times, in fine houses, they've a little stash of gold hid where any ... any _visitor_ might come upon it, and think he's found all their wealth: but the main part of it is hid some other place, the cellar or the privy or somesuch. Like on the reef last night."

Martingale did not seem to mind this unsavoury insight into Jack's terrestrial career: indeed, he looked at Jack with new respect as they hauled the boat up the beach, up past the weed-limned mark of high tide, to rest beside the Spaniards' longboat.

"Wonder if we can get that back to the _Pearl_?" mused Jack as he draped himself with belts of powder and shot, and loosened his sword in its sheath. "Always handy to have a spare: and _they_ won't be needing it, eh?" He waved cheerily at the _Black Pearl_ , in case anyone was watching: no doubt they'd all be busily gawping at Enoch's Intervention.

"Right," said Martingale, though he cast a wary eye at the margin of the jungle. "Straight for the cave, then, Jack?"

"Aye," said Jack. Christ, he hoped someone would make Sparrow go back to bed, when the grisly business was done. No: donâ€™t think of Jack Sparrow, doing his duty by his man: think of gold, and victory. Jack swallowed, and straightened his back, and said, "Let's go."

 

The cave was up in the foothills, no more than a mile from the beach, though Jack had a feeling that the path twisted more than it should. There _was_ a path, and Jack was suspicious of it, for it seemed such an easy way to lead a man into a trap: but to either side of the trodden earth -- dark and slippery, here and there, with blood -- the jungle pressed close, all hot and green and sharp with spines and saw-edged leaves.

The two of them did not pause to botanise. The forest shielded them from the bright heat of noon, but it was full of sounds, and Jack -- more accustomed to dangers that walked, often noisily, on two feet, and talked while they did so -- started nervously at every crash and hoot. He had stopped assuring himself that the Spaniards were gone. Given his edginess, he'd have welcomed a corporeal foe to engage.

"There -- there it is!" said Martingale beside him, and Jack (who had been trying so very hard not to think of Jack Sparrow's wounds, and of Sparrow struck down and Jack powerless to help, that he'd ended up thinking of nothing at all) peered into the tenebrous gloom ahead. He could just make out a dark defile at the left of the path, where Martingale was pointing. The undergrowth thinned before them, and a number of dark lumps littered the stony ground. Jack saw one move, and put his hand to the hilt of his sword, but the moving part rose up and fragmented: flies, hundreds of them.

That'd be the Spanish, then.

Martingale quickened his pace. "Let me --"

"Not so fast," hissed Jack, grabbing Martingale's arm. "What if they _didn't_ get everyone?"

"No one's come to bury the dead," Martingale countered, and Jack had to admit he had a point. He could smell the bodies now, their decay hastened by the heavy heat, and _he'd_ wouldn't have hung around such a reek.

"Righto," he said. "D'you want to go in, or shall I? One of us'd better keep watch."

"You go," said Martingale magnanimously. He was carrying a lanthorn, smart lad: he lit it, and handed it to Jack.

The cave was deliciously cool, and there was air moving in it. Jack lifted the light high -- he'd bet none of the first party had thought to carry a lanthorn, and they might've missed the clearest clues -- and peered into the depths.

"D'you see anything?" said Martingale urgently. For a bloke who was supposed to be keeping watch, he was ever so interested in what Jack was doing.

"No," said Jack, stepping forward: and in that same instant he saw a glimmer of metal. "Or ..."

A glimmer of metal moving, and the sound of a booted foot on stone.


	69. impofperversity | An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter Sixty-Eight

  


So much blood, pulsing and pouring and shining in the sunlight; Burton’s hands all ruby-glistening, and the deck so hot that the trickling rivers of it turned dark and crusted in moments. Burton’s tears dripping down, making tiny pale eddies in it all, and then being washed away themselves. Burton mumbling reassurances to himself and Cooper both; _Don’t you worry Ben, you’ll make it, oh yes you will; I’m here, I ain’t about to let you go, no never my friend._

Enoch’d taken a long splinter of bone from Cooper’s head; that, after removing a small section of his skull—his _skull_ —which lay now on a cloth at his side. Now, he folded back the dark, wet flap of skin and hair, and wound a long bandage loosely round. The white linen turning red, then black; so very fast.

“So much,” said Jack; his tongue was thick in his mouth, and the words sounded foolish to his ears as they emerged into the heavy silence.

“Yes, Jack,” said Enoch. “But that was the problem; he was bleeding, inside, and all that blood was pressing. ‘Tis like a leeching; the blood must be let, but when that blood’s inside the skull, it can only be done by extreme means.”

“There’s… there’s a hole, now, in ‘is ‘ead,” said Joe Henry, still green, but astonished, and curious despite himself.

“I can solve that problem, later,” said Enoch, “when the bleeding stops; but there’ll be nothing gained by closing it up now, and having the blood still welling. We must wait. Keep him clean, and still, and wait.”

Damned physicians; _wait_ , they said, when the true meaning of that was that they could do nothing more to help. Jack swallowed, and asked, “Can you not give him anything? No potion or powder, Mr Root, as’ll bring him round?”

“Would you wish consciousness on him, at this moment?” said Enoch sharply, and Jack had to concede that point. He’d a hankering for unconsciousness himself, and on several occasions in the past half hour had thought his wish about to be granted.

“Right,” he said, to the assembled throng, “Show’s over. Can someone bring some rum, and something to eat, for me and Mr Burton here, and Enoch, d’you need anything? No? And some more water; we ain’t going to leave Mr Cooper lying in his own blood, are we? Go on, get.”

The crew dispersed, muttering amongst themselves. Jack moved next to Burton, lifting Cooper’s legs over his own and leaning against the side of the ship. He closed his eyes, and wished Jack Shaftoe were here to put a great warm hand on his arm, and insist upon his return to bed.

“Captain,” said Enoch Root, washing his hands and the carpenter’s tools in the bucket of reddened water, “how are you feeling, now? Are you back in your… self?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” said Jack. “And I’ve been in pleasanter places.” As soon as he said it he felt bad for complaining; a few cuts were nothing, not compared to poor Cooper. He was tired of saying the wrong thing, seemed to’ve done nothing but, today.

“Do you need…?” enquired Enoch, delicately, but Jack shook his head, and said, “All I need’s the rum that someone’s bound to bring me any moment now.”

“Very well. I believe I’ve a book, below, that may have some useful suggestions for Mr Cooper. Call for me, Jack—John—if anything should happen, but I shall be back shortly.”

“Aye,” said Jack, and then thought to add, “And thank you, Enoch; whatever happens, now, we know you gave him his best chance.”

Enoch nodded, once, and went below. Jack sat quiet beside Burton, loath to leave him; unsure what he needed, but wanting to give it, whatever it was; just as loath to open his mouth, and risk saying something else thoughtless or facile. He was desperate to convey the depth of his regret, to make his apology, but that could only be an admission of weakness and error. Captains didn’t beg forgiveness for every man as died. ‘Twas up to the company to decide whether Jack’s decisions earned him the right to lead them.

“I should’ve brought him back sooner,” Burton whispered, finally. “I kept him there, the whole night; I thought he’d wake; but he—he—”

“I’d’ve done the same,” said Jack. “You cain’t know, can you?”

“You’d’ve done the same, then… for Jack Shaftoe?” said Burton, making Jack’s stomach twist.

Jack looked over at him, and his dirt- and snot- and tear-streaked face, at his eyes all red and glassy, and tried to imagine Jack Shaftoe there instead; tried to see Shaftoe, crying over _him_ ; and couldn’t. Couldn’t imagine that Shaftoe’s heart would ever break in this way.

He was all confused, and disappointed; it’d seemed such a fine thing in the last few delicious, maddening days, all that wonderful sure passion. And yet it kept being sullied by Shaftoe’s fits of reticence. Last night, he’d been so sure that their perils together on the reef had put an end to that, sure that Shaftoe’d seen for himself what it was that they had between ‘em, and what it was worth. And yet, as soon as all this’d happened—as soon as Jack needed Shaftoe’s heart as well as his sword arm and his strong, lithe body—why, Jack Shaftoe’d run off as quick as a rabbit; _and_ , dammit, with bloody Martingale, tongue lolling, trailing after him.

What Jack’d seen, looking at Cooper and Burton, was his own bittersweet luck in having Jack Shaftoe hale and (almost) whole beside him; but Shaftoe’d seen something else. Seen a reason to go, not to stay.

Jack set his jaw, and said, “I’d’ve done the same for any one of you.”

*

Jack Shaftoe’s sword had leapt into his hand near as fast as his heart’d leapt into his mouth; Martingale must’ve heard the metal snicking, and he cried out, “Jack?”

A sound of low laughter from deep in the cave, and steps; slowly, the man came forward. A Spanish soldier, all armoured and silvery, lanthorn-light sliding in bright crescents over the deep convexity of his cuirass, and glinting off his helmet. “You;” he said, “you are Jack Shaftoe, then.”

“Any particular reason why we should discuss this before I kill you?” said Jack, moving round to his left, beginning to circle, trying to avoid being a silhouette against the cave mouth; if he was to drop the lanthorn, he wanted them to be equally blind.

“You are so sure that you will kill me? Ah… Don Esteban told us that you were a murderous man.”

“When I need to be, p’rhaps,” said Jack, and then added cunningly, “But still; it weren’t _me_ as cut out Don Esteban’s filthy innards, last night.”

The man’s face darkened. “So I am the last, then; if Don Esteban is dead, this means that you took no prisoners,” he said flatly.

“None,” said Jack. “And you may have noticed that you ain’t got a ship anymore, either. So there’s not a lot of point in trying to kill us; you’ve nowhere to go, mate.”

“Are you saying that I have nothing left to lose, Mr Shaftoe? Such men are dangerous.”

“Only if they’re also stupid,” said Jack. “I’m not particularly interested in putting an end to you. I’m here to do another job, and enough men’ve died, at your hands and ours. I’m happy to take you back to our ship and let Captain Sparrow decide what to do with you. He ain’t much of a one for random murthering; he’ll probably just stick you in the brig and drop you off somewhere later.”

“Or try to _ransom_ me,” sneered the Spaniard.

“Yes, well, I think we all know how that turned out last time,” said Jack. “I shouldn’t think that’d be high on his list.”

They circled, and circled back again, neither man foolish enough to present himself as a shadow-form for the other.

“Come on, mate,” said Jack, “It ain’t worth it.”

“I cannot trust you. If I lay down my sword, you will kill me, will slit my throat just like you did the throat of Don Alejandro de Braxas.”

“Not _just_ like,” protested Jack; “That was an axe.”

The Spaniard bared his teeth at him, but Martingale made a little snorting sound, which gave Jack an idea. “All right, I take your point,” he said. “Would you trust _him_ , instead? Look at that face, he’s no guile in him. I’ll give him my sword, and then you can lay down yours, eh? And no blood spilt?” He did not wait for an answer, but beckoned Martingale forward and passed him his weapon, never taking his eyes from the Spaniard. The sword, chosen by Jack from the armament chest, was too heavy for Martingale, but he did his best, and hefted it in both hands.

“There,” said Jack, “there, now, we can just—”

But slight Martingale, outlined against the cave entrance, an uncertain expression on his face, was too great a temptation for their opponent; and they were plunged into sudden darkness as the Spaniard lunged at the lanthorn, and then at Martingale, and Jack’s ears rang with the shattering clash of metal on metal in this small rocky space.

He leapt forward, ducking a wild sweep of someone’s sword, and hooked an elbow around the Spaniard’s throat; wrapped his other arm about the man’s head, ignoring the teeth sinking into his forearm, and wrenched his neck backwards and round with a sound of gristle and bone that set all the hairs on Jack’s neck to stand on end.

The man dropped heavily, all weighted down with his armour, clanging lifeless to the cave floor.

“That was SO unnecessary,” said Jack irritably, and went looking for the lanthorn.

He brought it back out to the cave mouth, to re-light it; and for the first time took notice of Martingale. He was leaning against the wall of the cave, half in shadow and half in sunlight. Jack’s sword hung limp in his right hand, and he was clutching at his left side. Blood was seeping between his fingers.

Jack’s heart sank, and he knelt in front of the shaking youth, looking up at his pale face, and gently peeling his hand away.

“It ain’t so bad, I don’t think,” said Martingale, though he looked about to vomit.

Jack pulled Martingale’s shirt up, until he could see clearly; there was a long, slicing gash, but it’d glanced off the hipbone by the look of it, and was a cut of muscle, not anything more. A relief. He nodded. “You’ll be fine. We’ll tie this tight, mate, and sew it when we get aboard; should make a great scar, that one. Give me your shirt, eh, it’s ruined anyway.”

He bade Martingale sit, and cut a sleeve from his shirt with his knife, folding it into a thick wad, and tying that over the wound.

“I’m sorry,” said Martingale, “but if you knew me better, Jack, you’d not’ve given me that sword; I’m a fine shot, Captain uses me always for that, but...” His pointed face was still pale, but he grinned at Jack, and put on a brave face.

“You must be a fine shot, indeed,” said Jack, grinning back, “for I can’t imagine any pirate vessel keeping such a useless swordsman in her company.”

Martingale laughed, and winced, and drew in a deep sucking breath.

“Should get back to the beach, eh?” said Jack, trying hard to keep the regret out of his voice.

“Not yet,” said Martingale. “You’ve not yet searched the cave.”

“I can’t leave you here, like this.”

“Yes you can; leave me your pistol, too, and that extra shot; and I swear I’ll be a better guard with that than with any great lump of steel in my hand.”

Jack looked at him thoughtfully; there was a sheen of sweat on his upper lip, but sitting down, he seemed all right.

“I’ll not take long,” he promised. “And you must talk to me, the whole time, so I know that… that nothing’s happened.”

Martingale nodded, and smiled, all eager, all keen not to be the cause of abandoning the search. He gazed up at Jack, as Jack divested himself of the powder, the shot, his pistol; and Jack, surprised, thought he recognised that light in Martingale’s eyes. Was the fellow looking at him like… like… _that_ way?

Damned if he wasn’t!

But Jack fought down the flare of his old irritation, and tried to be dispassionate about it. The fact was, that he could look down on Jamie Martingale—his hair shining blue-black in the sun, drifting soft over his shirtless shoulders, his eyes all dark and _speaking_ —and feel nothing but mateship for him in return.

It would not feel the same, he knew, if it were Jack Sparrow lounging there, half bare, a trickle of sweat running down his chest.

And then he recalled how it felt yesterday, when Sparrow was treating him as if he were nothing more than any other of the men on board, and how it ached; and he felt sympathy for Martingale, a sympathy to replace that anger that’d always lurched up when a man looked on him this way.

Jack leant down and put a hand on Martingale’s shoulder. “I shan’t be long,” he said, again; “and then I shall get you down to the beach; for you, Mr Martingale, need to see Enoch. And I…”

He stopped short. But it should be said; should be said, to make the matter quite clear to Martingale; and should be said, because it was true. Jack needed to be at Sparrow’s side, now when that was a terrible place to be, just as much as all those times when it was the closest place to heaven.

“…and I need to get back to my Jack,” he said, and headed into the black mouth of the cave.


	70. An Alchemical Prescription,  69

  
  
The _Black Pearl_ was running before a warm westerly, heading for Tortuga to carouse and careen. Ahead of them the island was a dark smoky blur on the horizon: the men were hurriedly fleecing one another at various games of chance and skill, and Jack had already picked out those gentlemen least likely to be left with any cash to spend in the taverns and bordellos, and thus more easily persuaded to stand watch this first night at anchor in the harbour.

All was well, all was well: there was Cooper, kneeling beside Burton, peering at his mate's cards and laying down his own. Funny set of cards, now Jack could see 'em more clearly, all skulls and gibbets and swords. No doubt they were Cooper's own pack, some legacy of his gipsy forebears: and the game continued apace, the other players -- Felton and Stone and Davies the cook -- not seeming in any way discombobulated by the lurid pictures laid out on the black deck in their midst.

But as Jack drew closer, a flibbertigibbet of breeze corkscrewed around him, almost snatching the hat from his head, and it blew Cooper's long dark hair away from the open place in his head. Jack could not resist the temptation to peer in, and see what Cooper was thinking. There in the dark cavity, like a theatre in miniature, he saw little mannequins strutting and fretting: could recognise himself (or p'rhaps 'twas Cooper in disguise), pistol in hand, gesturing like a bishop, and Jack Shaftoe there too, smirking and shirtless. Cooper had a right bloody nerve, thinking of Shaftoe half-naked like that. Didn't he know that Jack Shaftoe was --

But oh, what was this, long and red and sinewy-snaky in the shadows, reaching out to wrap about the Sparrow-puppet? It twined about the tiny figure's neck, and Jack clutched at his own throat, feeling the hideous strength of the thing, and someone was crying out, howling: he hoped it wasn't himself.

"No! _No!_ "

Jack came back to himself with a jolt. Oh, he ached; his throat was tight, and there was a heavy cold weight on him, pinning him down. He blinked, and realised from the gummy slowness of it that his eyes had been shut: that rum, and sunlight, and exhaustion had conspired to send him to sleep.

And here was Burton, wailing: and Jack knew with a dreadful sick certainty that while he slept, Cooper had slipped away. Had _died_.

For form's sake he touched a finger to the hollow of Cooper's throat, hoping against hope for a flutter of pulse: but there was none, and the skin was waxy-cold. Burton, still howling like an animal, had Cooper cradled in his arms, all covered with blood but not bleeding any more, and the agony in his face struck Jack like a blow straight to the heart.

"He went easy, mate, no pain, no lingering: his last memory would be of you, Mr Burton, and many happy memories before an' all. C'mon, get some rum down you: 'tis a terrible loss, and I'm sorry for it, for you."

He might as well have been a ghost. Burton paid him no heed, did not even look at him: just held Cooper's lifeless body, that ghastly sound coming ceaselessly from his mouth.

Here came Enoch, at a run: bit late for that, thought Jack. He looked up and shook his head, once, and Enoch slowed. He hunkered down beside Burton and set a hand to the man's broad shoulder, and said, "He's beyond our help, John: he's gone to a better place. Come, drink: there's no shame in mourning your friend, but you must have a care for yourself."

"We mus' bury him," said Burton thickly, wiping tears and snot from his face with one bloody hand. Cooper's body rolled limply with his movement. "We must dig 'im a grave."

"Aye," said Jack. "I don't care to think of a sea-burial, not here." He did not mention the monster in the reef, or the flotsam of the Spanish ship and her crew. "We'll bury him properly, on the shore. An' we'll have a fine wake for him -- and for the others that we've lost -- once we've laid him to rest.. He was a fine man, Mr Burton, and we'll not see his like again: but we'll not forget him, eh?"

"I'll never forget him," said Burton, sniffing. "He was ..."

Jack wanted to finish that sentence for him -- my love, my friend, my match, my other -- but he did not. He thought instead of mourning Shaftoe (as good as gone, though quick and lively still): of Shaftoe maybe mourning him, if he'd died in Cooper's place as Cooper had stood in his. The unlikelihood of it made his eyes sting, and he blinked angrily.

"He was my mate," said Burton at last, jaw clenched with frustration at the words he couldn't find.

Jack bowed his head. His legs were cramping under Cooper's dead weight, his throat was sore and his heart very heavy: but life must go on, and he must play Captain again.

"Come, Mr Burton," he said. "Will you tend his body, and make it ready for his shroud? Mr Turner: take the gig ashore, with a couple of strong men to dig and, oh, Mr Martingale's ashore, ain't he? Pick a pair of decent marksmen, then, to go a-hunting, and another to stand guard: and send back all the boats, to bring the rest of us across."

"What about Jack Shaftoe?" said Bootstrap. "Ain't you going to go looking for him? That cave --"

"What _about_ him?" snapped Jack. "He'll be back from his little treasure-hunt soon enough, 'less he'd rather settle down on this no doubt bounteous and delightful island." Oh, he could go after Jack Shaftoe, and fetch him back again: but what was the purpose to it, eh, if the man refused to stay, refused to see the worth and delight of what they might have between them?

Besides, Martingale'd be there: Jack'd seen the way he looked at Shaftoe, and maybe, maybe, Shaftoe -- newly introduced to the pleasures one man might bestow upon another -- was already ...

"Come, Captain," said Enoch Root, extending a hand t'wards Jack. "You've injuries yourself in need of tending: let's see to that sling before you go ashore."

A couple of the men were helping Burton wash Ben Cooper's body: Stone was squatting in the waist, stitching a sailcloth shroud. Bootstrap was already picking his men for the first shore-party. No one spared a look for Jack: there was nothing more that he could do.

He grasped Enoch's hand and tried not to groan as he was hauled upright. Oh, he needed physicking all right: and the wounds on his body were the least of it.

* * *

Jack held the lanthorn high before him, and went cautiously deeper into the cave. There was smooth sand underfoot, scuffed with footprints: someone, though perhaps only the late Spaniard, had come this way recently.

Behind him, Martingale was telling a long, rambling story. The walls of the cave echoed and amplified his voice, and Jack could hear every word.

"... was in Nassau Town," he was saying, "an' somewhat down on my luck, if you know what I mean: I was a Navy man, see, but our captain, 'e was such a bugger -- begging your pardon -- that a whole lot of us upped and ran as soon as ever we could. Captain Ross weren't nothing like Jack Sparrow ..."

There was a ghostly fluttering noise, and Jack leapt back from some phant'sied movement in the blackness, raising his sword against whatever foe was coming for him. Or perhaps it was a rock-fall, or some device to trap the unwary; Jack'd heard of these from a cove he'd met in Marseille, who claimed to have robbed a Pyramid or two. He stifled an oath when a million tiny scraps of black velvet flocked around him, brushing against his skin and rushing past him towards poor Martingale. Bats! They were bats, smaller and more myriad than Jack'd ever seen 'em, even in the old barn at Churchill's dad's place.

"... an' so I was up before the magistrate, an' he was all for hanging and bloody hell what the fuck was that?"

"They're only bats," Jack called back to him, smugly superior at Martingale's alarm. "Nothing to worry 'bout, mate."

"Oh. Right." He could hear Martingale shifting. "So there I was, 'bout to be sentenced, an' who should turn up 'cept Jack Sparrow?"

Jack could not help himself: his heart leapt, and he listened harder.

"'Course, I din't know it was 'im, what with the wig an' the hat an' the Navy gear," said Martingale, chuckling at the memory. "But I'd heard of him -- we all had -- an' they'd been saying how the _Black Pearl_ 'd been sighted 'round the coast. So Jack Sparrow, 'e comes in, and starts on about how we're all his crew, and he'll see us disciplined and make sure we don't do it again, very sorry yeronner, and all that: an' I din't have a clue what was going on, but I reckoned whatever it was would be better than the gallows. So off 'e took us, all in our chains, and roundabout and up an' down, and while we was a-walking 'e came an' talked to each one of us, to find what manner of men we were. Vagabonds and wastrels for the main, they were," Martingale went on blithely, clearly ignorant of _Jack_ 's origins, "but a few of us 'e liked the look of."

All unbidden -- yet warm and somehow welcome -- a tide of emotion welled in Jack's heart: liked the look of _Martingale_ , had he? And on that thought he knew the feeling for jealousy: an emerald of jealousy, a precious thing indeed, for Jack learned from it what he'd surely known already, that _he_ wanted Jack Sparrow, and wanted Jack Sparrow to want only him.

Martingale had stopped talking, which was a little worrying. "Why'd he go looking in the courthouse, then?" Jack called back to him: 'twas not just to start the man speaking again, but a genuine desire to hear more Sparrow-history. Oh, the wonderful nerve of the man, to snatch a whole gang of unfortunates from under the nose of the law!

"Turns out one of his men -- old Stone, I call to mind -- was up there too, having fallen into bad company in some tavern, an' Jack Sparrow wouldn't get 'im out and leave the rest of us there, not when he was short-handed and there might be Navy lads like me."

"Righto," said Jack, somewhat mollified by the sheer mundanity of this explanation. There was a draught from somewhere, cool on his face: the lanthorn flickered, and he raised it higher.

The cave widened here, and off to one side was a pool of black water. Jack gave it a wide berth, mindful of the thing on the reef, but no tentacles burst forth to greet him. And there beside the pool were stacked three wooden boxes, splintery with age.

Jack set down the lanthorn: called back to Martingale, "I've found something!": and, for lack of a better tool, battered at the topmost crate with his broadsword, swinging it like a crowbar, until the aged wood split open, and out spilt things that shone.

There were coins, of that same old-fashioned design and heft as the one in his pocket: there was a gold chain with links as big as Jack's thumb-joint (he put it around his neck); there were little bags of soft leather, all rotten now with the damp, that split open to reveal lustrous pearls and polished stones.

Jack was dazed, but not for long. Working quickly -- the lanthorn wouldn't last forever -- he filled his pockets with coins, and bedecked himself with necklaces and chains and bangles until he clinked and jangled like a tinker. No point in trying to carry it all: there were no Spaniards left to sneak in and grab it, after all, and Jack'd lay there'd be plenty of volunteers to ferry it back to the _Black Pearl_.

And oh, how he was looking forward to seeing Jack Sparrow again: to saying, "I've found you a treasure after all," and then, closer, perhaps when they were alone in Sparrow's cabin, " _You're_ treasure, my friend: you and your gold teeth and your mind and your body and _you_ ..." That'd make amends for Jack fleeing the deck this morning, wouldn't it? That'd make up for all the times he'd been cold, or churlish, or stubborn?

Oh let it be enough.

Martingale gaped like a fish when Jack appeared, all draped in antique riches: "I can't believe it," he was saying, and "how much of it's left?" and " _that'll_ cheer 'em up, an' poor ol' Cooper too."

"C'mon," said Jack, laying down the lanthorn and pulling Martingale to his feet. "Let's take 'em some good news, shall we?"

"Are we leaving it lying there?" said Martingale, hanging back.

Jack gestured, noisily, at the Spanish corpses, furry with flies and stinking to high heaven. " _They've_ got no use for it," he said, "an' I reckon any visitor'd think twice about poking around."

It was mid-afternoon, and the sun was already sinking behind the flanks of La Sorciére: the forest was gloomier than before, and as full of strange sounds, but Jack no longer cared. They were going slowly, because of Martingale's wound, but Jack -- with Martingale leaning on him, all sweaty and shirtless and yet quite undesirable -- could have run all the way to the beach, so eager was he to lay his spoils before Jack Sparrow, and tell him, too, of that _other_ discovery he'd made, in his own heart.

A shot rang out, loud as thunder and twice as startling, and Jack skidded to a stop.

"What the --"

Another shot; another.

"Fucking Spaniards," grumbled Jack, steadying Martingale and drawing his sword, "never let anything lie, bloody stubborn the lot of 'em. D'you reckon you can --"

"Ssssh!" said Martingale fiercely, head cocked t'wards the faint echo of voices: and he began to grin.


	71. impofperversity | An Alchemical Prescription, 70

  


The last fingers of light were slanting down across the beach, across the bay, and the _Pearl_ was goldlit where she lay at anchor, all glowing rope and wood against the dark scud of cloud building at the eastern horizon. The last gig was ferrying across, and Jack Sparrow watched it through half-closed eyes from where he sat at the very edge of the forest, shadowed by the thick trees at his back. Several men were building up a fire, others a rough wood boucan; having heard the shots ring out, Jack’d presumed there was game to be had, and that they could stay here a day or two, to restock, to smoke the meat. To tend their varied wounds and hurts. To give Burton time to say goodbye.

Most of the company had taken the path into the jungle, to the clearing where Cooper’s grave was being dug. A heathen place, for his final rest; but they’d put up a cross, and paint it up all fine, and do the thing properly.

And then, in a day or two, they’d set sail; for where, Jack’d not yet determined. He’d talk to Enoch Root, who must surely have some destination of his own in mind, and perhaps Root’s needs would give them some direction to follow.

Joe Henry had been wandering along the beach, to the rocky outcrop at the foot of the southern headland, but as Jack watched, he stopped; clambered over the rocks to where the waves crashed and swirled, and let out a far-off shout. Several men’s heads lifted, and Bootstrap, down that way, ran over to where Henry was pointing and gesticulating. Jack considered going to investigate, but he was too numb and tired to be interested in any treasure hunt. He closed his eyes, and lay down on the still-warm sand.

Five minutes later something dripped upon him; he looked up, and it was Bill.

“Sorry to wake you, Jack, but… Henry’s found Davies. Most of Davies, at any rate.”

“Christ, are they washing up?”

“Only Davies.”

“He never could resist a party,” said Jack with a sad twist of a smile. “Even a wake. Better tell the boys to start another grave.”

“Already done, and Stone’s goin’ back for a shroud.” Bill waved a hand out at the bay, where the gig was halfway to the ship already, and sat down beside Jack.

“’Zat really necessary?”

“Yes,” said Bill grimly, and Jack thought better of asking further.

“Where’s Burton? He all right?”

“By the grave. He’s not doin’ too bad; he’s a brave lad.”

“That he is, but still… he’s lost a lot, Bill. ‘Magine if that were your Kitty, eh?”

“For all I know she might be gone,” snapped Bill, “and me out here none the wiser; least Burton was there at Cooper’s side.”

Jack was silent for a moment, acknowledging the truth of this, and of all that Bill Turner gave up to be here with him. He squinted out at the horizon and said, “If… if you need to go back for a while, Bill, I’d understand it; you know you’re a free man, and always, always welcome to return. I mean, I know you would; know you can’t resist this life, this ship.” He essayed a grin.

“P’rhaps,” said Bill, slowly. “… just for a while. See my boy.”

The two of them sat silent, each one lost in thought of what that might mean. Jack would not ask Bill Turner to stay, no matter how much he might want it; valued the man too much for that.

Eventually, Bill broke the silence. “But no, Jack, not now; not when we’ve lost so many, it ain’t a good time, and you’d be short.”

“What, you don’t think I can get new men, for this ship? Should throw you off, just for suggestin’ such a thing, mate.”

“Aye, of course you can. And there’s Shaftoe, he’s—”

Jack’s belly tightened. “I wouldn’t rely on Jack Shaftoe to be here past next port,” he said, the words like slow-rising bile in his throat.

Bill frowned. “What d’you mean? Last night, he was—”

“Aye, maybe, but where is he now, eh? He’s nothing but a runaway, Bill, he’s no loyalty in him,” Jack said; cruel words, but he felt better for saying them, for having them out in the open.

Bill Turner was frowning at him, confused, and Jack elucidated, with a flick and a wave of his unrestrained hand. “He’s done nothing but run from me. He left us in Port Royal, din’t he? You had to kidnap the man to get him back.”

“Why did he sign up on that other tub, back then?” mused Bill. “I thought he’d stay, truly I did.”

“Scared of me, Bill. Scared of what I made him think, an’ want. When you came down below that day, pounding on my door, telling him the gig was leaving…” Jack trailed off, shook his head, smiled. “Ah, you don’t want to know, mate.”

Bill snorted. “You got that right, you can spare me the details.”

“The details ain’t that bad,” said Jack, possessed of a sudden urge to confide. “He just kissed me. You were hammerin’ on one side of the door, he had me pinned on the other. And then… well… then he ran.”

“But he came back; he stayed; and Jack, he’s been stayin’ in your cabin, and I’ve seen the way he’s been lookin’ at you, and you’re the same. Don’t even try to tell me that there ain’t something going on there.”

“Oh, _plenty_ ,” said Jack, with a salacious grin. “Though if I’m honest, not _enough_.”

“Detail!” cried Bill, holding up an admonishing palm, and making Jack laugh.

“And yet,” Jack said with a sigh, and all the laugh left him. “That ain’t sufficient, Bill. Just to have him want me that way, that ain’t nothing special. Let’s face it, he ain’t alone there, is he?”

This received the roll of eyes that it deserved.

“Ah, anyway,” said Jack, and then stopped short. Bill followed his gaze; there, coming along the beach, was Jack Shaftoe. Shaftoe, and Martingale, and the hunters; Shaftoe shirtless, with a pig slung over his shoulders, and the others behind him the same. Martingale shirtless too, and leaning ‘gainst Shaftoe, and Jack’s jealousy flared, till he noted the bandage around Martingale’s waist—oh, Lord, not another one, though at least the boy was ambulatory. In his other hand, he held a cloth-wrapped bundle, a heavy one by the look of it. Maybe they found something, after all?

Jack watched them approaching the fire, and knew he should go to Martingale and check on him. When he looked at Jack Shaftoe, at his clenched jaw, at the trickle of pig-blood running down his chest (Jack flinched away from the vision of himself, setting his tongue to that trickle); ah, when he looked at that man, that _vagabond_ , the urge to go to him was fierce, so very fierce. But ‘t’would be foolish, just foolish to keep running to him; foolish to keep being left.

Shaftoe stared back, eyes dizzying blue even from a score of yards distant. Something intense, something sure was in that gaze; but all blanketed under something sad and dull, a sadness that resonated with Jack’s own. He swung the boar off his shoulders, and let it fall heavy to the sand; held out his hand for Martingale’s bundle, never taking his eyes from Jack. But he did not come to Jack; did not come to give comfort to his friend, nor even to present whatever he’d found to his Captain. Just turned on his heel and disappeared into the forest.

Runaway. Bloody runaway.

*

The sight of Jack Sparrow, his arm strapped and slung, all indistinct in the gathering darkness beneath the trees, penetrated Jack’s gloom and filled him with a violent urge to run over, to explain himself, to demand some forgiveness and elicit it with kisses and caresses if it were not immediately forthcoming; but it was not the time, no, not now. Martingale’s mates had told them of Cooper’s passing, and all Jack could think about was what that must mean to poor young Burton. He could feel it, sharp and horrid; how it would be, right now, if Sparrow were taken from him, and in such a way. They said Cooper’d gone easy; but he’d bet it wasn’t easy to watch.

He’d bet Jack Sparrow had made himself watch it, though. And Jack knew he should’ve been there, to watch it with him; to offer him a warm hand on his back, to remind him of the good and true that was all through this world alongside the ugly suffering. He’d abandoned Sparrow to that suffering, and had felt the truth of that abandonment, sharp as a knife, as he stood there in the forest hearing of Cooper’s death; stood there, all strung about with gold and gewgaws. He’d ripped them off, dropped them where he stood, and bundled them up in his shirt. Hidden them for a better time.

And now Sparrow’s shadowed face, and his unmoving silence, had crushed Jack’s vestigial hope that, after all, it didn’t matter that he’d left, that Sparrow wouldn’t care one way or the other. They might’ve managed to part with civility and stiff smiles, but Jack’d known, oh he’d known, that Sparrow wanted him— _needed_ him—to stay; and that silent figure up by the treeline spoke volumes to him.

Apologies later. Burton first; he couldn’t go to Sparrow, not till he’d gone to poor Burton. He struck off from the beach, back into the trees, where Art Samuels’d told him they were preparing the gravesite.

The clearing was not far back from the beach. There were two dozen there, some digging, some talking; Burton and Root sat beside Cooper’s shrouded corpse. The men looked at him with varying degrees of welcome.

Jack crouched down beside John Burton, and put his hands on Burton’s hunched shoulders.

“I’m so sorry for it, mate; for what you’ve lost. I know better’n most here just how that must feel, and Lord knows you don’t deserve it. Your Cooper was a good man, a fine man, and he’ll be missed most sorely.”

Burton looked up at him, but his eyes looked odd, as though he were only half there; Jack flicked a glance at Enoch, and Enoch shrugged.

“D’you think you _do_ know?” said Burton. “D’you think you can truly ‘compass what he was to me?” He did not say it as a challenge; it sounded more like curiosity.

“Yes,” said Jack, firmly and without hesitation, and Burton nodded at him, as if to say, _you’re lucky_ ; and Jack knew that he had been. Hoped that he still was.

“Enoch here told me, once,” said Jack, “that in days of old, a man would be buried with all his riches, to take along with him to the afterlife; them Pyramids, in Egypt, full of it, they were. Cooper here was worth riches to you, and thanks to him, we’ve found riches an’ all; I say we give him his share.” He untied the sleeves of his shirt, and pulled the thick gold chain from the pile of plunder.

“If I’ve your agreement, Burton,” he said, “I say we bury this with your mate, as thanks and respect; for we’d not have any of it, without him, and we owe him.”

A crowd had gathered around him, gawking at the dim glint of gold and stones, and mutters ran through them.

“I think it a fine idea, Jack,” said Enoch, and Burton nodded. Awkwardly, Jack looped the great chain around the neck of the sail-cloth wrapped body. He embraced Burton again, and stood, just as more men arrived, bearing a second corpse (“Davies,” someone muttered), and torches. Bringing up the rear came Jack Sparrow. He glanced over at Jack, at the spilt riches, and at the chain about Cooper’s neck. Jack saw his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed; but could not hold his black gaze, which slid from Jack like a drop of water sliding off the waxy skin of an apple.

“Right, gentlemen,” said Sparrow, “I b’lieve we’re all present; let’s lay our companions to rest.”

The men gathered in a loose circle, and the bodies were laid down in the dark loamy earth, where long, fleshy worms already wriggled. Jack moved to the back of the crowd; skirted round, and came to stand at Sparrow’s shoulder. Bill Turner, on Sparrow’s other side, shot him a warning look, which Jack rejoined with a frown; but Sparrow did not look at him.

“Benjamin Cooper, and Matthew Davies,” said Sparrow into the rustling quiet. Torches flickered and popped; insects chirruped in the bushes.

“Two fine men, two fine friends, two grand pirates. And Edward Felton, we mayn’t forget him, neither, though he ain’t here to be put to rest. We fought ‘longside ‘em, and laughed ‘longside ‘em, and slept ‘longside ‘em; and they were a fine part of our company. Davies kept us fed, and hardly ever gave us the flux; Felton spoke for us when we din’t have the words we needed; Cooper, ah Cooper was a fine shot and a strong fighter and more besides.

“We’ve all been through hard times and sweet times together, and though we may not know everything of their lives afore they joined us, at least we know this; their lives _with_ us were rich and full, and seldom boring, and ain’t that what most of us seek? I shall miss every one of them, and some of us’ll miss ‘em worse than others. So I thank you, Ben Cooper, and Matthew Davies, and Edward Felton, for being part of the _Black Pearl_ ’s company; and we shan’t forget you, not ever.”

He paused, and cleared his throat; Jack looked over at Burton, and the tears were rolling freely down the lad’s cheeks.

“Would anyone else like to speak?” said Sparrow, and he too was watching Burton; but Burton squeezed his eyes shut, and shook his head.

“May I?” said Enoch, and he stepped forward to stand at the foot of the two open graves. “I know you are not all church-going men,” he said, with blithe understatement, “but at these times, it behoves us to recognise the possibility of a higher power, and to beg his indulgence.”

He bowed his head, and began to intone: “Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum…”

Jack moved closer to Sparrow, till he stood right behind his shoulder; till his chest touched the back of Sparrow’s sling. When he breathed in, strands of Sparrow’s wild hair tickled his face, pulled to him by his inhalation. Sparrow stood frozen, stiller than the dead before them.

“Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra.”

The old words were gentle, comforting; but Jack would know no comfort until he felt Jack Sparrow’s strong embrace again, and returned it double. He reached out with his still-bandaged left hand, and rested it, gentle, trepidacious, on Sparrow’s waist.

“Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris.”

Jack Sparrow did not move away; but neither did he lean into Jack’s touch, take the support that Jack was offering. He turned his head and gave Jack a dark, unreadable look that seemed to pass right through him; and oh, how Jack wanted to grab the man. To grab him and hold him, and tell him how much he was wanted and cared for, and how his strange beauty and lunatic courage and rapid wits made him the perfect companion, the perfect friend, the perfect…

“Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo. Amen.”

“Amen,” they all murmured; and Jack Shaftoe, who’d had no time for such things since he was the very smallest and wickedest of sprats, was praying as hard as any one of them.


	72. An Alchemical Prescription,  71

  
  
To have Jack Shaftoe so near was the worst sort of temptation: and Jack had never been especially proficient at resisting temptation, 'specially when it breathed so warmly on him, and looked back at him with (was he imagining it?) such regret, such ... supplication. He longed to lean into Shaftoe's warm embrace, to take up the promised intimacy pledged by that poor bandaged hand 'gainst his waist, to forgive, to deliver --

"Captain, a word?"

Jack repressed, with difficulty, a snarl: for had he not been telling Bootstrap, his good and loyal friend Bootstrap, that Shaftoe was nothing and not to be trusted? But, oh, Shaftoe's lips were parted too, he'd been about to speak, and Jack wanted to hear the words on the tip of his tongue, wanted ...

No, better not think about Jack Shaftoe's tongue.

He stepped back, leaving Jack Shaftoe standing there, hand still raised to the space where Jack's skin had been a moment ago. "Yes, Mr Turner?"

"Well, Jack ..." Bootstrap laid his hand on Jack's arm, gently bringing him away from the graves and the noise of men shovelling earth over their fallen comrades. Away from Jack Shaftoe. Jack could feel Shaftoe's eyes on that hand: could feel Shaftoe's gaze stronger than Bill's touch, though his first mate's hand was adequately warm, human et cetera.

Bill Turner, it seemed, wanted to speak to him at length about what would happen in the morning, about the business options open to the _Black Pearl_ in the Lesser Antilles, about what might be done to succour John Burton in his hour of need: all good and right and wise, to be sure, but could it not wait? Jack kept a rein on his temper, and congratulated himself on this: he was tired, and his various injuries were beginning to throb and sting most unpleasantly, and his neck was stiff with the effort of not turning to look at Jack Shaftoe.

Shaftoe must've made himself scarce again, for Bill leaned close, and said, "Don't let him fool you, Jack. He's --"

"Come, now, Mr Turner," snapped Jack. "Nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris, eh?"

Bill's lips moved, working this one out. "We forgive?" he hazarded.

"Aye, Bill, we do," said Jack firmly.

"It ain't very _piratical_ , now is it?" demanded Bill. "Why, just now you were sayin' --"

"I know what I _said_ ," interrupted Jack, rolling his eyes, "but I reckon Mr Shaftoe's earned a bit of leeway, eh?"

Bootstrap snorted. "Give 'im an inch and he'll take a mile," he opined. "That sort ain't never going to stay in one place."

"Well, then, ain't it fortunate that neither's the _Black Pearl_?" said Jack, with an especially vulpine smile. "I take your point, Bill," he went on more quietly, "an' I'm glad of your care for me, truly I am. But 'tis Mr Shaftoe's choice, to run or to stand: and I'll not force him to choose tonight, nor drive him from, from our company if he cares to stay."

"Fair enough," said Bill, grudgingly. "But if 'e runs again, _I_ ain't going after 'im."

"Me neither," said Jack, with more conviction than he truly felt.

Settled near the fire -- though not _too_ near, for the lads, in drink, could be a mite boisterous -- with a flagon of rum and the delicious aroma of roast pork, Jack mused on Shaftoe and his damnable tendency to run away. That first time, in Port Royal, he'd been scared; scared of Jack, scared of himself, scared of what'd sparked between them. Sparked, indeed! Jack stared at the fiery motes flying up from the bonfire, and thought of that first sight of Jack Shaftoe lit by torchlight on some forgotten islet; of his marvellous introductory Exhibition, so very unwelcome on a ship laden to the gunwales with quintessentially flammable goods; of his recipes, and their effect on Spanish vessels and Dutch gardens; of the incendiary heat of his kiss ...

There was Jack Shaftoe now, over on the other side of the fire -- fair enough, given Bill's nannyish zeal earlier -- with Martingale, three-quarters unconscious on the rum his mates had donated in advance of Enoch's needlework, stretched out next to him. Was it Jack's imagination, or was Shaftoe's gaze fixed on him? He sat up a little straighter, just in case.

Could he not, with all his skills and wiles, persuade Jack Shaftoe to stay, at least for now?

And if not, might he at least partake a little more of that glorious Shaftoe heat before the man fled for good?

 

It was full night, now, and the waning moon lifted herself heavily from the ocean beyond the reef, chasing the _Pearl_ 's bare spars with silvery light as she swayed gently at anchor in the bay. Well-fed on roast pork and whatever greens they'd foraged -- must find a new cook, thought Jack -- the company comported themselves on the beach. Someone had found a fiddle and was torturing it: some of the men were even dancing, always an entertaining sight. Jack observed all this from his sandy hummock, disinclined to join in but feeling remarkably benevolent.

The riotous mood was mellowing to something more nearly approaching normality, and Jack decided it was time to remind them all of their unexpected good fortune. Why, he'd almost forgotten it himself: but it'd set the boys right, to hear a little good news.

He waited until the fiddler broke a string (this seldom took long) and then stood up, staggering slightly, and yelled, "Men!"

An approximation of quiet was reached.

"We're here to send off our mates in glory," said Jack, "an' you're all doing a fine job of it: I bet they're looking down on us --"

"Or up from the other place!" cried the inevitable joker, to ragged cheers.

"-- and wishing they could be with us still. And so they are, my friends, so they are: for they were ours, and they died as they lived, and we won't ever forget 'em. Aye?"

"Aye!" they chorused, and Burton called out, "No never!"

"But we've vanquished our enemies," Jack went on, wishing he had a hat to take off and clutch to his breast, "an' though we can't get that Aztec treasure just at the present time, we ain't leaving empty-handed, are we?"

Not everyone, it was clear, had seen Jack Shaftoe's plunder: there was some confused muttering.

"Mr Shaftoe, why don't you tell us what you found, eh?" invited Jack, glad of the chance to smile at Shaftoe.

But Shaftoe just shook his head, his expression inscrutable.

"Mr Martingale, then," said Jack wickedly. "C'mon, mate, tell us what occurred."

"We was in the forest," began Martingale thickly, prodded to his feet. He swayed, and his mouth opened and closed a couple of times before more words were emitted. "And there were _loads_ of Spaniards. Hundreds!"

Then, as alarm swept sluggishly through the company, "But they was dead."

A few cheers. Martingale grinned, and swayed a little more, and Stone reached up to steady him.

"Where was I? Oh, aye. An' there was this cave, an' another bloke in it. Spanish 'e was. He stuck me, but Jack Shaftoe did for 'im." Martingale beamed at his saviour, and Jack chuckled sourly: 'twas clear that Shaftoe had done nothing at all to invite, incite, such admiration, yet who could blame Martingale for looking at Jack Shaftoe that way?

"What of the _treasure_ , Mr Martingale?" prompted Jack.

"Oh yes. 'Twas right back in the cave: Jack c'n tell you, I don't feel so ..." And gradually, with a boneless grace, Martingale subsided, via Stone, to the beach.

There was a roundelay of congratulations and good-wishing, with Shaftoe (Jack was pleased to see) squirming in the midst of it. After a while Jack took pity on him.

"Well," he announced, "'tis only right and fair that Jack Shaftoe should have first pick of the spoils, aye?"

This movement met with general consent: but when the noise had died down, Shaftoe was sitting there shaking his head.

"What d'you mean, no?" enquired Jack.

"I don't want it," said Shaftoe firmly. He was smiling, but there was sheer determination in the set of his shoulders.

" _Why_ not?" demanded Jack, hands spread wide.

"I ..." began Shaftoe: then glanced to his left and to his right, and smirked, and said, "No, never mind."

"What's the problem, Mr Shaftoe?" said Jack, exasperated. "Treasure? Shiny stuff? Think of it as pocket-money, eh?"

"Come here, Captain, and I'll tell you," invited Shaftoe, and his eyes sparked devilish bright in the firelight.

Jack sighed loudly, for the benefit of the company: he picked his way carefully over various limbs, bodies and bundles, though he'd as soon have trampled each and every one of them on his way to Jack Shaftoe. Oh, here was Jack Shaftoe right in front of him, not even bothering to stand up, beckoning Jack down beside him, cupping his hand to whisper in Jack's ear: and his sheer proximity robbed Jack of the ability, never mind the inclination, to stand. He dropped to his knees next to Shaftoe, and looked at him, and did not speak.

* * *

All Jack wanted was to pull Sparrow down, and embrace him, and not let him go: to make amends and seek forgiveness, to pledge what he could not have pledged with any honesty before, that being himself. But not here, not now: not yet, at any rate.

He phant'sied he could hear Sparrow's heartbeat, though the rabble was rowdy enough that it seemed unlikely. For a certainty, he could smell Sparrow, and see the cruel marks of last night's battle on his skin, and see his own reflection small and shiny in that dark impenetrable stare.

For the second time that evening, Jack prayed to any power that might be listening: oh, let this be enough.

He leaned close, and set his good right hand to Sparrow's shoulder, and spoke low and clear. "I've no need for treasure, Jack; I ain't going anywhere. I'll stay, if you'll have me."

For a moment he thought Sparrow had not heard, or did not understand: then, oh, that smile, sharp and bright as a new knife. Jack Sparrow's hand coming up to Jack's own shoulder, gripping painfully hard: Sparrow's voice, effortfully light, saying, "Will you, then?"

"Aye," said Jack: then, feeling that this might not suffice, "I'm done with running."

He waited -- no point in forcing it, and besides, bloody Bill was still fulminating at him from off to his right -- and did not look away from Sparrow: did not look away from that black gaze which was all of a sudden _say it's so it's so!_ full of warmth and wickedness.

"What's brought about this change of heart, then?" said Jack Sparrow quietly, settling himself _oh yes! yes!_ next to Jack, close enough to touch: touching.

"I know what I want now," said Jack. He could not stop himself smiling, but there was more to it: a strange, and not entirely pleasant sensation, rooted somewhere in his chest. "I'm sorry for it, Jack," he went on anyway, "sorry I left you there: but truth is ..."

He let the words trail off, having finally identified that peculiar sensation: 'twas the desire to be _honest_ , a desire that Jack would under other circumstances have found deeply suspicious. He had not, after all, survived so long by blurting out his innermost thoughts in every tight spot. Impish impulses were one thing, but this had none of the marks of the Imp's interferences. Here, now, between the two of them -- for Martingale was snoring, dead to the world, and the others had drawn off a way to leave them some semblance of privacy -- it seemed necessary, and just, to tell Sparrow the truth.

"Truth?" enquired Sparrow, looking askance at him.

"Truth is, Jack, I couldn't look on poor Cooper, there, and not see you laid out the same."

"And that mattered, did it?"

"More than anything," said Jack fiercely. "More than anything: for I haven't had enough of you, not by a long chalk. And it made me afraid, Jack, afraid to lose you, afraid you would be, be gone -- though I didn't know what I feared, not when I left you there. And I'm sorry for it. I am."

Oh, the hope in Jack Sparrow's face, imperfectly disguised: it made Jack's heart leap with hope too.

"Enoch said you weren't a man for half-measures, Jack Shaftoe," said Sparrow. "I confess I thought he was mad, or mistaken; for you left me so easy, and came back so cold."

"I _couldn't_ come to you, Jack, not 'til I'd ... 'til poor Cooper'd been laid to rest," said Jack.

Sparrow bowed his head, assenting: and Jack, heartened, added, "Anyway, what's wrong with half measures? Half for you, mate, and half for me." And because he would not kiss Jack Sparrow, not here in front of them all, he stuck out his hand and said, "Do we have an accord?"

"Aye," said Sparrow, looking at Jack as though he too were thinking of kissing. And more. His hand clasped Jack's, thumb stroking Jack's palm. "Remember last night?"

Jack glanced over his shoulder to where snowy surf marked the reef.

"Not out there," said Sparrow. "After that, when you were ... showing me how sorry, an' grateful, an' ... oh, everything."

Jack's face (not to mention other portions of his anatomy) heated at the recollection. "I should've let you rest," he muttered. "Shouldn't've taken advantage."

"Oooh, you can take advantage any time you like, mate," Sparrow assured him, wriggling closer.

Jack tore his eyes from the swell of that kissable mouth. "You need to sleep," he said, as firmly as he could manage. "And besides, we ain't exactly private."

Sparrow pouted. Oh god that mouth. "How about a nice walk in the woods?" he essayed.

Jack rolled his eyes. "Full of bugs," he argued, "and dead Spaniards: and live ones, for all I know. How about some more rum, and a good night's sleep?" For the festivities, it was clear, were drawing to a close: the rumble of voices was fit to be drowned out by an ensemble of increasingly stentorian snores, and no one had built up the fire for some time.

"You're no fun any more," grumbled Sparrow, "you've gone all Puritanical on me." But he suffered Jack to pull him down onto the soft sand, and wrapped his arms around Jack's waist and writhed sleepily until their bodies fitted snugly together.

Jack could resist that mouth -- could resist Jack Sparrow -- no longer. Surely no one was watching, no one could see? He kissed Sparrow long and slow, ruthlessly tamping down the urge to lick, and suck, and bite, and grind. Sparrow made a soft complaining noise, no doubt intended as commentary upon Jack's uncharacteristic urge to celibacy: but already his breathing was evening out, less laboured than it'd been last night.

Jack lay, heart beating, and wondered what had happened to him: wondered why it felt so fine, to have been honest and virtuous instead of cunning and clever. But oh, so fine: the warmth of Jack Sparrow against him, the cling and pull of his arms, the beat of his pulse against Jack's arm. So fine.


	73. impofperversity | An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter Seventy-Two

  


Snoring. A gentle rush and hiss of waves. The acrid smell of embers; sand, cool and gritty under his cheek. Morning sun warm on his face, red light burning through eyelids that he was not yet ready to open.

Jack Sparrow had woken in such a fashion a hundred times. It was as familiar and comfortable to him as waking in his own cot, in his own cabin. But this morning, wakefulness came to Jack with a hot rush of victory, and he immediately recalled it to be not just _any_ morning when a pirate captain might wake upon a beach, surrounded by the detritus (human and non-) of an evening’s carousing. No, this was a special morning; _this_ morning was the morning after the night before, and the night before was the night when Jack Shaftoe had pledged to run no more. To be at Jack’s side. To be…

Actually, come to think of it, Shaftoe hadn’t been all that specific as to exactly what he aimed to be. Jack screwed up his eyes against the morning sun, seeing sunbursts against the ruby glow, and tried valiantly to recall exactly what it was that Jack Shaftoe had professed. Regret, most certainly, and several varieties of apology, all of which were most delightful to accept… and a promise that all that running away was a thing of the past; an assertion that Shaftoe knew, now, what it was that he wanted. Yes, those warm words Jack’d clearly heard, and hadn’t they made his heart swell!

But, as to what that discovered desire might be, Shaftoe’d remained elusive; and he hadn’t given in to Jack’s sleepy and half-cocked attempts to convince him to demonstrate in actions, rather than words. Had just pulled Jack into his arms, and there they’d each held the other, close and chaste all night; or at least until the motions of sleep had parted them again.

Jack stretched out a hand, certain to encounter Jack Shaftoe’s warmth, and pleasantly sure also that today, with a good night’s sleep behind him and nothing pressing on the horizon, he’d be able to explore Shaftoe’s mysterious desires in slow and glorious detail. But his arm reached its full length without his fingers finding any such target. He reached round behind himself instead, and there met hair; but his fingertips knew, instantly, that it was too fine and clinging to be Jack Shaftoe’s. Martingale, it was; the boy made a little murmury sound in his sleep, and Jack snatched his hand back, and opened his eyes.

Unbelievable. _Un-fucking-believable._ Shaftoe was gone.

Jack restrained himself from leaping to his feet and howling in rage. There was some perfectly reasonable explanation for this. Had to be. Shaftoe was merely… back in the trees, taking a piss. Talking of which, Jack felt a need.

He strolled up the beach like a fellow without a care in the world (or at least, that was the impression he hoped he was conveying) and up the path that led into the jungle. Someone was puking in the bushes, but a quick peek revealed a skinny hunched back and grey hair, neither of which could possibly belong to Jack’s quarry. He meandered another minute or two, up past the clearing where they’d buried Cooper and Davies; averted his eyes (out of sympathy; out of pain) from the sight of John Burton, streaked with mud and tears and asleep in the dirt at Cooper’s side.

If Jack Shaftoe’d gone further than this, so be it; Bill was right, there was no excuse for chasing after him. Jack stepped off the path and emptied his bladder, then wandered back down to the beach. One or two were stirring, but most had drunk enough last night to keep ‘em asleep for a goodly while yet. Still no sign of Shaftoe.

Jack went down to the sea, took off his boots, and waded in; splashed his face with water, awkwardly, with his left hand, and then decided he’d had enough of this bloody sling. It was hard to undo, one-handed, and he had to raise his arm and pull at the knot with his teeth (arguing to himself that the mere fact that he was capable of doing so was proof that he didn’t need the thing anymore).

Freed from the sling’s grasp, he tucked it into his pocket and followed the lapping wavelets back up onto the sand. He pulled on his boots and surveyed the bay, and mused upon where the hell Jack Shaftoe might’ve buggered off to, and more importantly, _why_ ; but found, to his surprise, that the weighty sensation in his chest was less one of anxiety than it was one of anticipation. Shaftoe wanted him, he was sure of that; and Lord knew he wanted Jack Shaftoe. So what was there to fear?

“You right there, Jack?” came a voice behind him; Bill.

“Aye, the arm’s a sight better,” said Jack, flexing demonstratively as he turned to his mate.

“All by your lonesome? Where’s your friend?” said Bill, who was far too much of a gentleman to say anything as unsubtle as _I told you so_ , but not nearly enough of one to be able to resist the burning desire to convey the sentiment anyway.

Jack bit his tongue and affected unconcern. “Oh,” he said lightly, “I’d say he’s just --”

With theatrically superb timing, Jack Shaftoe emerged from the shadows of the forest, and locked eyes with Jack across the beach, beaming at him. Jack’s heart leapt at the sight; oh, the way Shaftoe strode across the sand, the way the morning sun glanced off his hair and lit up his blue eyes! There was mischief on his face, the best sort of mischief; he looked like a man all ready to move away from the misery of yesterday, and find the good in today.

“He’s just behind you,” said Jack cheerfully, though there was no need. Bill’d turned as soon as Jack’d glanced up at the treeline, and had doubtless been able to read Shaftoe’s appearance on Jack’s face, for he’d made no attempt to hide his glee.

“Morning, gents,” said Shaftoe, with a nod to Bill; but a nod in passing, only, for he came and stood right next to Jack, and put an arm about him, taking Jack entirely by surprise. Jack grinned at him, and then made a _fancy that!_ face at Bill, which pleased neither of his companions.

“Mr Shaftoe!” he said. “Been exploring already?”

“That I have,” said Shaftoe, with a gleam in his eye. “And I’ve found something I’d like to show you. You ain’t needed here, for a while?”

“Don’t b’lieve so,” said Jack, though he afforded Bill Turner the courtesy of a querying glance. Turner shook his head.

“No, Jack, not needed; I’ll take a party back up to that cave today, bring down the rest of the haul. But you should rest, still; not go clambering up mountains or looking for trouble.”

“No fear, Bill,” said Shaftoe with a sunny smile. “I sh’ll make sure he spends a goodly portion of the day… resting. In fact, I do believe I’ll relieve Mr Partridge over there of his blanket, to make sure of it.” He gave Jack a quick squeeze, and sauntered off.

“He’s pleased with himself today,” said Bill sourly.

“Ah, come on, Bill, don’t be that way; I’ve forgiven him, and he was man enough to make a great apology last night. I won’t stand for the two of you being out of sorts.”

“All right; but if he don’t hold to his apology, Jack, if he--”

“Bill!” cried Jack in mock despair, “you’ve got a boy to father, and it ain’t me! Stop it, you great nanny-goat!”

Bill had the grace to laugh at himself, then, and he pulled Jack into a hug. “Fine, Jack, go and see what Shaftoe wants, and I’ll keep an eye over this sorry lot.”

And here came Jack Shaftoe, with an armful of blankets, and a sack that clanked glassily (Jack diagnosed rum) and seemed to attract flies (pork), and an expression of studied calm that Jack could see straight through.

“This way, Jack,” said Shaftoe; and Jack winked at Bill, and followed him.

*

‘Twas no more than fifteen minutes away, but seemed to take forever. Jack’s head was full of all the things he wanted to say to Sparrow, still (last night’s burst of honesty having been such a surprisingly pleasurable experience, he was keen to repeat it) and his throbbing flesh equally full of all the things he wanted to _do_ ; but he kept them both under tight rein, and said nothing, save _watch your footing there_ or _this way, just up a little further_ as he led Jack Sparrow up the northern headland, where he’d gone searching this morning; searching for some place to come, and to be alone with this man.

And here it was, the clifftop clearing that he’d found; hidden from the bay by dense trees, but open to the north and east, giving a wide bright panorama of the reef, the sea, the ship lolling at anchor. He spread the purloined blanket (Partridge had grunted in his sleep, and rolled over, and seemed utterly oblivious, making Jack silently congratulate himself on being, still, such a fine… borrower) on the grass, and tossed the sack into the shade of the trees.

Sparrow squinted out at the sea. “What’re you so keen to show me, then, mate?”

“What, that ain’t enough?” demanded Jack, throwing out an arm to the view.

Sparrow laughed, and swayed close. “’Twouldn’t be anything so special, Jack Shaftoe, if you weren’t in the picture to prettify it.” He put a hand to Jack’s back, his palm burning through the cotton hotter than the sunlight, and pulled him forward; and Jack couldn’t but stare at him, mazily astonished that this man who seemed such a creature of the night, of firelight and moonlight and shadow, could still be so lovely in the brilliant shine of morning.

“So,” said Sparrow, and he ran a fingertip over Jack’s lower lip, and licked his own, “here we are, Jack Shaftoe. Just you an’ me, and no mad Spaniards or interfering alchemists or well-meaning crewmembers; no fighting, no explosions, no giant squid; why, Jack, you might get positively _bored_ up here, with just me for company.”

“I’m fairly confident, on past experience, that we can find some way to entertain one another,” said Jack, winding his arms around Sparrow and closing that last tiny gap between them, feeling the lightning charge of contact shoot straight to his groin, and hearing a little sigh, a little groan, escape his throat at that.

“Really? Up here? Bit bright, ain’t it? Open? I took you for a man who liked… the dark,” said Sparrow, giving Jack an enigmatic look.

“The dark was a good place to… explore things,” Jack admitted.

“And a very intrepid explorer you were,” said Sparrow, and he slid a hand up inside Jack’s shirt, grinning.

“Haven’t explored everything, though,” Jack said, all in a rush, and an extra measure of heat suffused his skin as Jack Sparrow raised an eyebrow and smiled a slow shark’s smile. “And,” he said (in for a penny, in for a pound, and he surely couldn’t get in much deeper at this point; he was lost, utterly lost, to the world of sense and propriety, and he’d never seen the Imp in such transports of delight) “…and I don’t need darkness no more, Jack. I want bright sunlight for this; for you, for us; I don’t want it to be hid.” He was not sure, oh no, whether this sentiment would hold true before all the company, despite his forthright hand in front of Bill Turner; but here, with just the two of ‘em? Here, it was truly all he wanted.

“Your wants’ve come all clear, ain’t they, Mr Shaftoe…” muttered Sparrow, and he bit at his lip, and Jack couldn’t stand it one moment longer, but had to have that lip between his own teeth; he kissed Sparrow then, and the kiss was everything that last night’s had not been, was all his lust rolling warmly out through his lips and his mouth, spiking sharply through his biting teeth. Sparrow shivered, once, and then shoved his long thin fingers up into Jack’s hair and kissed him back, a kiss so fierce and flamey that Jack was hard in an instant, dizzy with bloodrush and breathlessness, and he had to hold on to Jack Sparrow even tighter, to be sure which way was up. But apparently he had it wrong, for suddenly there was wool beneath his hands, and Jack Sparrow beneath his body _oh yes_ and sunlight warm on his back, and yes, he was lying there on top of that marvellous, hard, sinewy, wriggly creature.

“So tell me what it is, that you want,” whispered Sparrow into Jack’s still open mouth.

Jack summoned his powers of speech, which’d temporarily abandoned him, and reminded himself that he was attempting a seduction here (although he had to admit that it seemed, at this point, as though his chances of failure in this endeavour were low; still, he wanted to be the one to do this).

_Seduction, seduction_. Subtle, irresistible seduction…

“Oh _God_ I want to fuck you,” blurted Jack, quite helpless, and Sparrow growled back at him, all hungry and greedy, a sound that was permission and plea both.


	74. An Alchemical Prescription,  73

  
  
The blanket beneath Jack's spine was threadbare: he could feel individual stalks and blades of grass through the wool, could smell, beneath the scent of crushed thyme, the faint odour of mould and tar that clung to each elderly fibre. Yet none of this was of any import whatsoever, for here, here, was Jack Shaftoe pressing him down against the stained wool, kissing and biting, putting his broad strong hands all over Jack's body and divesting him of his shirt -- Jack shivered as Shaftoe's fingers drifted across the shallow, curling cuts on his chest -- and murmuring, between kisses, ragged half-sentences of promise and plea.

"Christ, Jack, to be inside you ... all the way inside ... to have you moving under me, 'round me ... to spend -- oh, God, Jack, do that again, won't you? -- right up ..."

"I must say, Mr Shaftoe," Jack interjected breathlessly, "you're remarkably _direct_ for a ... well, a man with so little _education_ in these matters."

"I'm keen to experiment," said Shaftoe, half-kneeling above Jack and staring down at him, smile stretched wide with lustful glee. Jack basked in that blue gaze -- the pressure of Shaftoe's attention was like a caress in itself -- and stretched out, displaying himself to best advantage, to soak up every atom of admiration.

"I've seen your experiments before, mate, and from what I recall they can be quite ... quite _explosive_ ," Jack finished in a rush as Shaftoe laid him bare and paused a moment, simply staring at him. Jack stared back, heart pounding, incapable of movement: then sucked in his breath as Shaftoe's clever fingers worked at the buttons of Jack's breeches.

Oh, perfect Jack Shaftoe, so wonderfully full of initiative! Or perhaps he was somehow reading Jack's secret phant'sies, in all their entertaining and infinite variety: a better read, Jack was sure, than those rather overrated volumes he'd filched from de Braxas' library. All that studied debauchery seemed a chilly, distant thing, compared with Jack Shaftoe's hand, oh yes, on his cock; Shaftoe's skin warm under Jack's hands as he leant down to kiss Jack again; Shaftoe's bright smile, and the fervour with which he looked at Jack, and the sheer _anticipation_ of what was to come. Jack hoped with all his heart that this would be the first of many, many occasions on which their gazes locked, precedent of their bodies' intentions. Hoped with all his heart; aye, and all his body too, curving and arching under Shaftoe's sure touch, leaping to his hands, flushed and taut and entirely ready.

* * *

Everything here was very bright, very immediate, like coloured silks billowing around him: the sun on his bare skin, the vivid green of the herbage, the darker emerald of the trees that crowded close, the crimson blossoms on the vines, the deep blue of the sea and the light, luminous dome of the heavens. Jack Shaftoe was oblivious. Every nerve in his body, every thought in his head was focussed upon Sparrow. He was brimming with life, with delight, and Jack Sparrow was the whole and heart of it, laid out beneath him (Jack knelt back for a moment, just savouring the sight) like every dream of lust that Jack'd ever known, and more.

_All and now and here and yourn!_ he phant'sied he heard the Imp cry; from the corner of his eye he saw it jigging and dancing and gesturing lewdly, but he only had eyes for Sparrow. Oh, he'd thought himself blessed to be naked with this man in the flickery light of the swaying lanthorn, discovering curves and shadows and burnished shine: but he hadn't known the half of it, for Sparrow in sunlight was all colour and motion, skin gleaming with sweat, body responding to every caress. Jack bent to taste, and taste, and ran his tongue across those cruel cuts so that Sparrow convulsed and laughed; and next brought his mouth to one dark, hardening nipple, beguiled by Jack Sparrow's sigh.

He was caught by the need, the sudden sharp need, to have Sparrow entirely naked. _And then and then and then!_ shrilled the Imp: though Jack could not help but note that it did not provide any illustration of exactly what 'then' might entail. He'd figured out everything so far, though: and Sparrow certainly hadn't complained of his methods. He flipped and twisted the bone buttons of Sparrow's breeches until the garment came undone and he could look (could not, indeed, _not_ look) upon the sizeable organ thus revealed, all firm and dark and beaded, at its tip, with a pearl of fluid that caught the morning sun.

Every inch, every atom, of Jack Sparrow's body was a temptation, and Jack was determined to indulge himself without let or hindrance. He wrapped his right hand around Sparrow's cock, letting the unbandaged fingers of his left trail across the paler skin of Sparrow's groin, and set his lips to Sparrow's cock; and then, because he could, let his mouth open to take more. Oh, sizeable indeed, and surely swelling still with his caress: and Jack, recalling the queer pressure of that single finger inside his own body, paused.

* * *

Jack was busily congratulating himself; for hadn't he known from the start that Jack Shaftoe was perfect in every respect? Here he was in broad daylight, uncovering and exploring every inch of Jack (true, there were inches that he hadn't reached yet: but Jack was convinced of his intentions) and bestowing the most delirious joys 'pon each element of Jack's anatomy. Jack lay in a happy daze, quite content for Shaftoe to take the lead and demonstrate, yet again, his, oh God, his mouth, his hands.

But that mouth, all full of sunlight, had hesitated: Jack, who ached with wanting Shaftoe on and in and with him, manfully stifled a complaint. "What's amiss?" he enquired instead, voice hitching only a little as Shaftoe's half-wrapped hand brushed tantalisingly against his heavy balls.

"Seems to me," said Jack Shaftoe, his mouth red and smeary from the ministrations he'd performed upon Jack's cock, "that there might be some, ah, _difficulties_."

Jack blinked, and said, "And what might those be, Mr Shaftoe? You've changed your mind again, eh?" His fingers stole t'wards Shaftoe's still-buttoned breeches, and he traced the promising ridge of the erection beneath the stained cloth. "'Cause I have to say, you seem remarkably ..."

Shaftoe leapt to his feet so abruptly that Jack's heart jolted in his chest, and for a moment, even now, he was afraid that he'd driven Jack Shaftoe away: but no, for Shaftoe was tearing off his remaining clothes (literally, by the sound of it) and casting them aside, and finally stood above Jack, naked and grinning and yes, very definitely -- definitively -- interested.

"Oh Christ, come here: give me, give me ..." The words were rushing out, _spending_ out of Jack faster than he could think: he pushed himself up and clutched at Shaftoe's thighs, his arse, pulling him close, desirous above all things of getting his mouth on that cock. Shaftoe did not resist, and his hands were on Jack's head, twining into his hair, pulling him closer: but from somewhere above, more aggressive than plaintive, came the question, "But how ...?"

* * *

Oh, Sparrow's mouth on him was the best sort of bliss: but Jack wanted a _different_ bliss today, and he gritted his teeth and pulled away -- reassuring his affronted prick with promises of more pleasure to come -- and dropped to his knees in front of Sparrow.

"That's a very good question," said Sparrow, "an' --"

"Well, you don't _have_ to tell me," Jack said sweetly, his hands already seeking out and curving 'round the fascinating contours of Sparrow's body, "if you'd rather I just did this ... or this ... or ..."

Sparrow laughed, and writhed, and did unto Jack as he was being done by, and oh _Christ_ it was good, rolling and grinding together on the tatty blanket in the sun. And oooh, Sparrow's mouth seemed everywhere on him, kissing and licking and nipping. He sucked lewdly on Jack's forefinger, tongue swirly 'round the knuckle, eyes dancing: and Jack felt dizzy with it, fit to burst.

"Christ, Jack, just let me fuck you, just let me in you, just --"

Sparrow released his finger with a deliciously obscene noise, grinning. "Thought you'd never come to it, mate," he said. The tilt of his hips and the angle of his leg, against Jack's, belied his insouciance. "But you'll need a little, a little _assistance_ , to get you there."

Jack recalled that aromatic pot of ointment under Sparrow's mattress, not to mention Enoch's scented oil. He smirked, and said, "There's some nice fatty pork over there. Shall I --"

Sparrow howled with laughter, and bit at Jack's lip. "Vagabond," he said affectionately. "You're really the most revolting creature, Mr Shaftoe. Can't imagine what's possessing me, to be here, thus, with you."

"Me," said Jack, grinning, and rolling until he was on top again and could hold and kiss Jack Sparrow as he deserved. He was all afire with lust, and oh, craving the imagined heat that lay within this body: and Necessity, a little dishevelled by her dalliance with the Imp, brought forth a Memory (that slick finger) and its twinned Suggestion. Jack slid his fingers in beside his tongue, into that incendiary mouth: and saw by the spark of delighted approbation in Sparrow's eyes that he'd got it right.

* * *

Either Jack Shaftoe had, after all, read the uppermost layers of Jack's mind -- and Jack's intentions were surely writ there in letters of blazing fire, ten feet tall -- or he'd exercised, once more, his oft-surprising powers of invention and imagination. Either way was a delight, and the more so because Shaftoe showed no sign of recalcitrance or revulsion, but only glee at undoing Jack so easily, thoroughly, well.

The thought of doing thus to Shaftoe (and Jack was quite determined that, some day if not this morning, he'd turn the tables and give Jack Shaftoe what his whole handsome, strong, muscular body cried out for) made Jack moan more, and Shaftoe -- having just insinuated a second finger into the tightness of Jack's body -- looked up all guilty, like a picklock caught with his tools.

"Oh Christ, don't stop," Jack implored: then, contrary, "Nay, stop a moment." He wriggled free, knees rucking the blanket and raising a scent of greenery all around them, to arrange himself in a more mutually satisfactory position. Shaftoe, briefly bewildered, got the hang of it quick enough: he thrust his cock t'wards Jack's eager mouth, pulled Jack's knee up onto his hip, spitting on his hand and reaching round and oh, oh yes, he'd got the knack all right.

Jack tried to concentrate on _giving_ , as well as _receiving_. He set his lips to Jack Shaftoe's cock, all alive with the surging pulse of his blood: swiped his tongue all 'round the swell of it, and felt his arse clench and loosen as Shaftoe's fingers pushed inside, emphatic enough to turn Jack's spine to water. He moaned, and Shaftoe echoed him, and his cock throbbed and quivered in Jack's mouth. Oh God not yet. Jack tilted his head back, and oh, the noise his mouth made as Shaftoe's fingers twisted boldly into him!

"Jack, I've got to fuck you," Shaftoe was saying breathlessly. "I swear it, I won't last, I want ... are you, are you ready, can I ..."

Jack rolled onto his back, and Jack Shaftoe came with him, all wonderfully heavy and demanding, getting his knees between Jack's and his hand under Jack's thigh, oh god the confidence of the man, and oh Christ oh bloody hell his kiss, his kiss ... why was he _kissing_ Jack when -- but oh, the heat and heft of him there, just there, just nearly --

* * *

It was entirely different, and Jack hesitated at the tight difficulty of it: but Jack Sparrow twisted and curled, and made a sharp little noise, and suddenly Jack was _inside_ and oh hardly daring to move and oh this was what, this was everything, this was the thing he'd wanted all along.

The moment stretched out, and Jack held still, not afraid any longer of moving or hurting, but entirely dazed by the sensation, by Jack Sparrow's wide, wicked, oddly vulnerable smile as he tipped his head back and arched his spine; Jack could feel the twin of that smile splitting his face in half, and there were a thousand things he wanted to do (most of them, it must be said, some variation on thrusting, pushing, driving himself deeper into that yielding fiery tightness, that well of muscle he could feel shaping itself around him, letting him in, taking him in) but he lingered on the precipice like a boy waiting to jump, overwhelmed by the sheer _potential_ of his situation. And Jack Sparrow looking back at him: no one could look like that and not be utterly, wildly ...

Out of nowhere, it seemed, came a wild ululating chorus of screeches, and a pouring arc of colour, blue and green and yellow, clamoured at the corner of his eye. Jack gasped: his startlement drove him deeper, and Jack Sparrow hissed and howled beneath him, and writhed until Jack's balls were pressing against the smooth skin of Sparrow's buttocks, deep as he could go, astonished at the heat and pressure, the flex of Jack Sparrow's body all under and around him.

The clearing was silent once more: and close against Jack's ear, Sparrow hummed happily and said, "Parrots."

This was too much in itself, without laughter as well: yet Jack could not help himself, and was chuckling still as he drew back -- 'gainst the considerable, muscular resistance of Sparrow's arse -- and thrust in again, listening amazed to himself as his voice (ungoverned, save perhaps by the Imp) praised and exhorted and delighted in Jack Sparrow: as Jack Sparrow answered him, admiring demanding adoring. And oh, the look on Sparrow's face, the wild and definite bliss of it. Jack wanted that, wanted it too, wanted to give it and everything to Jack Sparrow ...

He wanted this to last forever -- _that_ was the same, at least -- and yet could not help racing onward, faster harder more, and Sparrow was imploring him to the same end, and the Imp was spinning so giddily with glee that it became a blur, and spun itself apart, and dissolved utterly in a million motes of wickedness all hazy in the sunshine: and Jack would've paid ever so much more attention to the demise of his constant companion, had he not been gasping and kissing and _fucking Jack Sparrow_. Sparrow's luminous black gaze was fixed on Jack, all hungry and demanding and entirely open: and Jack saw such wonders there, as Sparrow gasped and stilled and spent, that he could not hold back one moment more.

* * *

Jack felt as though they'd lain there for a thousand years, ten thousand, bodies entwined and selves entirely in harmony, the sun beating down on them as though they were in some gentle forge, being tempered and shaped and con-fused. Shaftoe's weight was pressing him down: Shaftoe's hot breath was gusting, gentler now, on his shoulder (Jack remembered belatedly that he was _injured_ , damn it: but could not, under the circumstances, bring himself to care -- especially as each separate ache and pain in his body had been individually eclipsed and assuaged by the conjunction just past): Shaftoe's mouth was just about in reach of Jack's agile tongue, a theorem that Jack tested by licking gently at the seam of Shaftoe's parted lips.

"Mmm?" said Jack Shaftoe, blinking at Jack, and then smiling at him with such perfect sweetness, such happiness (and such dimpled charm) that Jack's heart lurched in his chest for fear of having this and somehow losing it. He tightened his hold, skin sliding against slippery skin, and bit gently at the nearest part of Shaftoe's shoulder, tasting salt.

Shaftoe stirred, and winced, and with the utmost care (which Jack was pleased to recognise as sincere, for the way that Shaftoe was looking at him was promise and assurance at once) disengaged himself, and flopped down on the blanket. His hair was dark and spiked with sweat, his face red with exertion, and his expression would've reminded Jack of saints in icons, had it not been distinctly shaded with lewd humour.

"Christ, Jack," he said, and fell silent, still looking straight into Jack's eyes: no coyness now, no reluctance nor avoidance. "Christ," he said again: then, after a long smiling silence, with his hand on Jack's bare, sticky belly, "better than laudanum."

Jack beamed, and leaned over, and kissed Shaftoe full on that lovely and infinitely promising mouth. "Any conclusions from your Experiment, Jack?" he enquired.

Shaftoe arched an eyebrow, and said blithely, "Inconclusive, I'm afraid."

"What a shame: you'll have to repeat it, eh?"

"Several times," said Jack Shaftoe. "Enoch was very particular about Scientific Method."

Jack sent a silent blessing down to the bay, where Enoch Root was no doubt being pestered for hangover cures.

"And perhaps," added Shaftoe, with a gleam in his eye, "there are some _variations_ we might pursue, eh?"

Jack's body was suffused with a weighty post-coital ache, or he might have leapt with joy: but he managed to lay still in the sun, and to put his hand to Jack Shaftoe's face as calmly as though this were not their first afterwards.

"Whatever you want," he promised. "Everything you want."


	75. impofperversity | An Alchemical Prescription, Chapter Seventy-Four

  


_Everything you want…_

Jack grinned at the delightful absurdity of it all, that he could lie here on some Caribbean clifftop with a naked pirate, soaked in sun and the honey-sweet aftermath of desire, and that it could in fact _be_ just exactly—entirely— what he wanted. All the foggy complexity of his home, of London, of England, of _Europe_ , seemed a million miles, and just as many years, distant; all the emotional entanglements of the Partrys, all the stoic disapproval of Bob, all hidden far over that gauzy blue horizon and seeming to belong to some other Jack Shaftoe’s life. ‘Twas so simple now, all of it; all that Jack wanted, his sole necessary source of joy and delight, lay splayed out lazily beside him, smiling to itself.

“Well,” said Jack, “I think I’ve just availed myself of all I wanted, Captain Sparrow; what of your good self? Did you… get what you were after?”

Sparrow laughed, a flash of gold in sunlight. “Oh, I definitely got enough, mate. That, an’ then some.”

In the normal run of things, Jack was several years (and many girls) beyond concerns as to his own ability to please; but this statement sparked some long-buried anxiety in him, and he rolled up onto his elbow. “What’s that mean? Did I… was I rough?”

“Oh, Lord, yes,” said Jack Sparrow, with the evillest grin Jack’d ever seen upon him. “Perfectly, wonderf’ly so, Jack. Are you wonderin’ whether you catered to my expectations? ‘Cause I must say, I’m surprised you couldn’t tell that I enjoyed that. Immensely. _Unreasonably_ much, in fact.”

“’S’what I thought,” Jack said, his brief paranoia obliterated by a wave of self-satisfaction and a delicious heave in his belly at the recall of Jack Sparrow’s face, all contorted with agonised delight. Yes, Sparrow’d clearly been in some state of bliss, and Jack was beset by some uncomfortable admixture of curiosity, tinged with… yes, _envy_. Which was the last thing he’d expected, and really rather confusing, given Jack’s hitherto firm beliefs on what it might be like, to be on the receiving end of such attentions. He’d thought he’d have to be, well, _grateful_ to Sparrow for allowing it; but now he’d seen that it wasn’t the case, not at all. Questions began to haul themselves out of the sticky treacle that his mind had been reduced to by the intensity of his orgasm.

“But…” he began; but logical thought was still problematic, and he became momentarily distracted by the sight of the sweat that was pooling in the notch of Sparrow’s throat, and catching in the sunlight with every pulse of blood beneath his bronze skin; Jack leaned down, and licked it away. Strong and salty and good; still, his question persisted. “But,” Jack said again, “I-”

“You don’t have to stop licking me, if you don’t want,” interrupted Sparrow, magnanimously.

Jack grinned, and licked at his own lips, swollen from their fierce kisses. “ _But_ ,” he repeated, “I still don’t see _why_ you enjoyed it, Jack. It ain’t as if, as if, it was _designed_ for that, if you know what I mean.”

“Breaking the rules,” opined Sparrow, “is always— _always_ —more entertaining than following ‘em.”

“I do agree most heartily with you on principle,” said Jack, “It’s just that I can’t quite fathom how that applies to this particular instance. I mean, I understand it now from _this_ end, as it were; oh, Lord, Jack, I understand it, I do; but mate, what’s in it for you? I don’t mean to boast, but I’m not a _small_ man, Jack; it can’t have been a comfortable thing, taking me inside the way you did,” (neither one could hold back a lascivious grin as the words washed memories over their minds, over their flesh) “and yet, yet, you…”

Sparrow threw a leg over Jack, and bore him down upon his back, lying upon him all heavy and hot, his head blocking out the sun; he braced himself on his elbows, a black shape against the searing blue.

“Well, Mr Shaftoe,” he said, his voice all low and wheedling, “I could try and explain it to you… or, I could help you along your experimental way, and you could find out for yourself. You bein’ so fond of empirical research, an’ all.”

Jack’s blood lurched and surged, all thrilled and horrified. To’ve spent so long avoiding such a thing (a sudden memory of a good half-dozen fistfights at the mere suggestion) and yet be lying here now, underneath Jack Sparrow (Jack Sparrow all hot and wriggly and slick with sweat and semen and spit, all glistening muscle and bony strength): lying here, and (oh, crap) grinning foolishly at the suggestion.

“Maybe,” he said, eventually, when his mouth would once again obey his commands. “Maybe, if I grow tired of fucking you.” And he slapped Sparrow’s arse; the shiver of firm flesh under his palm was deliciously enticing.

“If you think I’m rising to that sort of thing, you’re very wrong,” said Sparrow archly.

“Think it?” enquired Jack, with a lewd wriggle of his hips. “I _know_ it, mate.”

Jack Sparrow grinned then, and writhed in response; he bent down, and Jack opened his mouth in happy expectation. He did not get the kiss he wanted, though; merely a quick swipe of tongue along the ridge of his nose, and then Sparrow’d risen, sinuous, and was standing over Jack, half-hard and all sticky and reddened from Jack’s rougher kisses, a bite-mark appearing on his shoulder. “’M hungry,” he announced, and strode over to the trees and their abandoned sack. Jack sat up and watched him; oh, Lord, Jack Sparrow walking naked was a beautiful sight to see, and Jack didn’t much care if the man never took it into his head to put clothes on ever again.

Sparrow brought it over, and sat cross-legged in front of Jack, pulling out a bottle of rum, and another of small beer which he greeted with a look of disdain. Most of a haunch of pork followed, and Jack giggled to see its thick white skin of fat; Sparrow looked over at him and mouthed, _vagabond_.

“Just you wait, Jack,” said Sparrow, “till we’re back aboard, and fully equipped; till there’s something sweet and slick to ease your way. Or, you know, mine, of course,” he added, with a cocked eyebrow.

Jack ignored this last, being entirely preoccupied with the effort of conceiving of anything more pleasurable than the morning’s supposedly un-easeful fucking. His stomach was all jumpy at the thought of doing it again, and he wondered, oh he wondered, when he could… but Sparrow was tearing at that meat, clearly ravenous. Better let the man eat, get his strength up; so instead of reaching for Jack Sparrow, he reached for the rum.

“A toast,” he declared, raising the bottle; Sparrow glanced at the beer, gave it a brief sneer, and decided to raise the pork bone instead. “To experiments,” said Jack with a grin, “and to first times.”

“Indeed! To Scientific Method,” said Sparrow, “and voluminous quantities of, of, of results. To enable statistical accuracy, and certainty of outcome.”

Jack grinned, and swigged, and passed the bottle over, taking the meat in return. “So you’re keen to repeat the experiment, too?” he asked.

“Keen? Try and stop me, mate,” said Sparrow, leering happily over his bottle.

But Jack felt a need to ask more. He wasn’t a fellow in search of commitment, or certainty, oh no; but was definitely keen on understanding. He’d no experience of how this type of arrangement, whatever it was, might play itself out in the real world. Did Jack Sparrow always have a fellow on hand, on his ship? What did that make Jack? Were they going to be like poor Burton and Cooper, paired and sure? Or, like de Braxas and Espinosa, some sort of twisted business arrangement that left both parties free to plunder outside of it?

“How does this work, then? You an’ me?” he asked, and then flushed, and scowled, embarrassed to be asking such a thing.

*

Jack was a little surprised by the question—hadn’t they just finished a highly successful practical demonstration of the technical aspects of the matter? But there sat Jack Shaftoe, lips glistening with pig-grease, that frown on his face that said he wasn’t about to let it go. Jack wriggled a little on the blanket, just for the pleasant twingeing souvenir it gave him.

“D’you mean, Jack, whether there’s a requirement to play turn-about? ‘Cause there ain’t, not necessarily. ‘Twas only a suggestion, an’ you seemed curious.”

“That’s not what I meant,” mumbled Shaftoe, though his belly tightened a little and Jack couldn’t help but notice that he’d not committed himself to an opinion on the matter. Which was good; at least he was still open to negotiation.

“Go on, then: _elucidate_ ,” demanded Jack, swigging at the rum.

“Well, say, on the ship; you’re the captain, and what am I?”

“The man who keeps the captain sweet?” said Jack flippantly, and regretted it in an instant as Jack Shaftoe’s spine stiffened visibly. “No! Nonono,” he said, backtracking hastily. “Only joking, mate. I mean to say, you’d be a most welcome and valuable addition to our comp’ny, you would, and no mistake there. I need good men, Jack, and you’ve proved yourself ten times over. Make a fine pirate, you would.”

Shaftoe grinned, but didn’t seem entirely mollified. He shifted about on the blanket, picked at the tiny purple flowerheads that littered the grass. “I’ll consider it,” he said. But he seemed to be leaving something more unsaid.

“Thing is,” said Jack, feeling something leap and twist in his chest. “Thing is, there’s more to’t than just joining the _Pearl_ ’s crew, ain’t there.” He swallowed, and made himself meet Shaftoe’s eyes; sea and sky and sunlight all melted together in the crucible of his bright gaze. He didn’t want to say, _there’s a catch, mate, I can’t have you aboard save if you’re mine_. But that was what he felt. That was what he wanted Shaftoe to know.

“Aye,” said Shaftoe, slowly, chewing at his bottom lip. “There is more to it.”

A short and heavy silence; and then another flurry of birds from the trees behind them, and seconds later, the sound of approaching voices. Shaftoe shot Jack a panicked look, and leapt up, and scrambled into his breeches. He glared at Jack as he fumbled with the buttons; “Get dressed, man!” he hissed.

“Why?” said Jack obnoxiously, annoyed to his core that Jack Shaftoe—a man for whom the word _modesty_ was surely a completely foreign collection of syllables—was still so afeard of discovery. “They’ve all seen it before.”

“What?” snapped Shaftoe, and Jack laughed to see the lightning bolt of jealousy that illuminated the other man’s face.

“We live together on a ship, man, d’ye think we can avoid seein’ one another?” He stood, languidly, and held out a lazy hand for the clothes that Shaftoe was thrusting his way. “But, Jack…”

The voices were coming closer. Jack stepped over to Shaftoe, standing close and putting his free hand on Shaftoe’s waist; leant into the luminous warmth of Shaftoe’s skin, and said low, “If you must know it, mate, I’ll tell you true; you’re the only man aboard who’s seen me the way you’ve seen me today.”

Shaftoe licked his lips, and said only, “ _Please_ put your trousers on, Jack.”

Jack felt a black scowl descend upon his face, and he snapped, "You're an idiot, if you think they—"

"Jack! I don't care what they might think, all right? But I'll do it my way, or not at all; I'll not have us be caught out like some surprise joke, so _put on your fucking trousers_."

His jaw was set, his frown fierce; Jack, most unaccustomed to taking orders, suffered a rather enjoyable (and yet somewhat debilitating) frisson at the determined certainty of Jack Shaftoe's demand, and stood frowning and open-mouthed for a second before capitulating with a pout.

He’d barely sat down again (and fought Shaftoe briefly for first possession of the rum bottle; Jack won) before several figures emerged from the trees. Staines and some of his cronies.

“Gentlemen,” called Jack in greeting. “If you’ve come to join our picnic, I hope you brought your own victuals, we’ve little left.”

“Hope we ain’t _interruptin’_ you an’ Mr Shaftoe, Captain.” This, accompanied by an unsubtle leer, from Bart Campbell. Staines cuffed him, and said, “Mr Turner asked us to seek you out, Cap’n; Red James was up on the south headland, saw sails headin’ up the coast, an’ if we don’t get past the reef on this afternoon’s tide, we’ll be here till mornin’.”

Damn. Disappointing, very disappointing, to be denied the opportunity of a long lazy day and night here with Jack Shaftoe; on the other hand, Jack had no wish to be trapped in the arms of the reef with strangers approaching. “Right,” he said, and pulled on his shirt. “We’re on our way. I’m a little slow, though, with all me injuries; you head on down, and tell Bootstrap we’re imminent, eh?”

“Aye, sir,” said Staines, and they disappeared back into the trees, Campbell looking back over his shoulder with a shameless grin.

A little silence. “Well, then,” said Jack; he looked at Shaftoe, still shirtless, at a silvery trail of sweat running down his neck; at the look of uncertainty on Jack Shaftoe’s face. It was a look that did not sit well or easy on the man, and Jack wanted to wipe it away with kisses and caresses, with groans and sighs, to replace it with the shining joy of an hour past. But no time, now; no time.

"Jack," he said, earnestly, "today's been a wonderful thing. _You're_ a wonderful thing; and whatever you think, whatever you choose, you should know that I want you still. Oh, I do want you still."

He leaned over, and gave Jack Shaftoe a gentle kiss on his warm, swollen lips, all redolent of pork and rum and Jack’s own skin, and Shaftoe kissed him back; a careful tongue, all slick, slipped into Jack’s mouth, and all the blood in Jack’s body seemed to swirl and seethe at its touch.

“I want you, too; and I’m not shamed by’t, neither,” said Jack Shaftoe, fiercely, and then he grinned, and pushed Jack away from him. “Now get down that hill, Captain Sparrow.”


	76. An Alchemical Prescription,  75

  
  
Bootstrap had left Martingale to ferry them back to the _Black Pearl_. The rest of the shore party were already aboard the ship, making sail and raising the best bower, but Jack Shaftoe lounged in the jolly-boat doing nothing at all, knee just brushing Sparrow's, and tried to decide whether to return Martingale's small, knowing grin with a brilliant smile or a pop on the nose. All right, so perhaps everyone knew what the two of them had been up to -- wasn't Jack Sparrow flouncing and prancing a little more _blatantly_ than before, and smirking every time he looked at Jack? -- but he wasn't at all sure that he liked the thought of Martingale noticing it. It made Jack feel grubby and unclean.

But oh, the feeling of stickiness on his skin, where Sparrow's seed had plashed against his belly; where he'd set his hand on Jack Sparrow's bare, sun-drenched flesh, and stroked and caressed for the simple joy of feeling Sparrow's response. The memory produced a corresponding physiological resurgence, and Jack, in an effort to conceal it, shifted on the hard bench of the gig. His thigh pressed against Sparrow's, and Sparrow nudged his knee against Jack's, as if welcoming the touch. Jack marvelled at how delightful this little piece of cause-and-effect felt, and how it brought a smile to his face.

All too soon, though, Martingale'd hooked onto the chains, and the three of them were scrambling up to the deck, where Bootstrap awaited them. (He had _washed_ that shirt, Jack'd seen him: yet somehow it looked worse. Perhaps the dirt had been a blessing.)

"I hear we've company, Mr Turner," said Sparrow crisply. "What manner of vessel have we spied, eh?"

"A fat little merchantman, Cap'n, or so I'd reckon from what Red James told me," said Bill. "I only saw her stern: heading up the coast she was; wallowing, you might say."

"Heavy-laden, then?" enquired Jack. "What colours did she fly?"

"Spanish colours, Mr Shaftoe," said Bootstrap. He was giving Jack a hard look: Jack moved closer to Sparrow, just to vex Bill, and could not help but smile at the comfortable, instinctual way that Sparrow's weight shifted t'ward him.

"Fair game twice over, then," said Jack Sparrow, with an especially gleeful grin. "Assuming we catch the tide, we should be on her by midnight, eh?"

"Aye, Captain," said Bill cheerfully: and he turned to instill a sense of urgency in the shambling, sunburnt and hangover-gnawed crew.

"Mr James," said Sparrow, beckoning, "pray entertain us with your observations. How was she rigged? What speed d'you reckon she was making?"

Red James, a freckled and belligerent fellow who Jack remembered chasing him through Port Royal that time, was not backward about speaking to his captain. After suffering mutely through five minutes or so of recondite nautickal zargon Jack heaved a gusty sigh. Sparrow, disappointingly, took no notice: Jack scowled, and looked around for some entertainment.

"Good afternoon, Jack," said Enoch Root, emerging from below as though summoned. "I trust you spent a pleasant morning?"

Jack narrowed his eyes, but Enoch's tone was utterly bland, and Jack could hardly call him out on the suspicion of a smile hidden away in that red beard.

"Delightful, thanks," he said. "Though I'd've liked to stay longer, there: don't know about you, but I'm all for a little idleness from time to time."

"Ah, yes," said Enoch. "Which reminds me ..." He turned to Sparrow enquiringly, evincing not the slightest interest in the technical details of their quarry's rigging, canvas and course. "Have you thought yet, Captain Sparrow, where your company might be bound after this diversion?"

"Not especially," said Sparrow. "Perhaps not Port Royal, not for a month or so: give 'em time to extinguish the last of the fires, eh? Maybe we'll head up to Nassau. Lovely place," he confided to Jack, leaning in close. "You'll like it, I swear."

Jack bit back a remark to the effect that he hadn't yet decided to stay on the ship, let alone consented to being dragged all about the Caribbean; bit it back, since he wasn't sure whether it was a truth, or merely an automated contrary reaction to Sparrow's assumption, stoked by the odd burn that filled him when Sparrow leant against him like that, in full view of all his assembled men.

"Why d'you ask, Enoch?" Sparrow was enquiring. "Did you have anywhere in mind? Any special place you'd like to see? Someone you'd like to visit, perhaps?"

"Well, Captain, if you've no specific plans, might I prevail upon your good nature and suggest that you might once again care to head towards the mainland, and consider me a paying passenger?"

"Ain't you had enough of Guyana, yet?" said Sparrow. "Phant'sy there's still something useful to be found there, eh?"

"'Tis no mere phant'sy," said the alchemist, in a faintly reproving tone. "I spent my time with the Chibcha more _productively_ than some --"

"Aye, and we all suffered the stench of it on the way back!" called Stone, as several of the men grimaced, or wafted their hands, or provided more traditional commentaries on the cargo of naphtha that'd netted such a profit, yet turned the _Pearl_ into a reeksome floating bomb. Jack opened his mouth to make an aside to Sparrow, along the lines of _we could do with more o' that, eh Jack, and deal to that creature in the reef, haul up your granda's treasure_ ; but something stopped him. P'rhaps the thought of all the implications of that innocent-seeming 'we'.

"-- and learned that the people there have much to teach," continued Enoch calmly. "They spoke to me of tribes upriver who can cure any sickness: the falling sickness, Plague -- even, they claim, the Great Pox."

Jack exchanged a long, thoughtful look with Sparrow. Oh, to be free of that shadow: and more, to know that it no longer hung over Jack Sparrow, who was so alive and vividly intense ... that would be a prize indeed, and he could see the same thought reflecting clear in Sparrow's eyes.

  
Enoch was still going on about the tribes upriver: the legendary city that lay hidden deep in the jungle, the fabulous wealth of the people, the native canoes, the need for vigilance and wit, et cetera. "... and I rather hoped, Jack, that _you_ might once again agree to accompany me."

"Me?" said Jack, gawping like an idiot. "Why me?"

Enoch shrugged. "For all the same reasons that I mentioned back in London, when you agreed to be my companion. The Indians are fine fellows, but a man likes to speak his own tongue, sometimes, and two may travel more easily than one. Besides which, Jack, you present a useful combination in an escort; you'll never say no to your own curiosity, you'll befriend any man as your first resort, and fight like half-a-dozen as your last."

Jack could not help himself: he glanced at Jack Sparrow, not for permission or approval but to see how Sparrow was taking this.

Sparrow stood close beside him still, but had stilled a little, and no longer leant into Jack with that slow, wave-driven sway. One hand tugged at a beard braid, and his eyes wandered skyward as if thinking of something quite unrelated; but there was a twist to his mouth as the silence lengthened.

"Well?" said Enoch.

"I --" began Jack, but Sparrow interrupted him.

"I daresay you're quite correct, Mr Root, in your assessment of Mr Shaftoe's _utility_ ; but yours ain't the only offer he's had. He's a popular fellow, today, is Mr Shaftoe. So I think he'd better make up his mind, eh?"

He looked over at Jack then, with a speaking heated look. Jack could hear all those things that Sparrow'd said earlier today reverberating through his head; and from the corner of his eye he was happy to see the Imp of the Perverse, slowly reconstituting itself from shadows and sea-spray and sparkly motes, staggering still a little from the shock of its earlier discorporation, but sidling slowly close and whisp'ring away at him, all Jack Sparrow's luscious gold-dripping words: _there's more to't, he said, din't he eh o my Jackling, more an' more an' all, an' wonderful he said, wonderful and want and o Christ he said, and --_

_I know what he said_ , Jack thought stubbornly.

_And you my lovely what did you say too? Want you, said my Jack, and I'm not shamed, no, and more -- you said, you said sure and clear, you said I'll do it my way. Said it so! So do do do! Do it here and now and all your way and do and say and stay! You know you ain't about to leave and go and run oh no my brightling love you know it cain't be done! Tell him tell him tell him! Tell them all and say it true!_

Spindly fingers digging into Jack's thigh, hissing words of supplication from that thin wide mouth, stretched in a desperate rictus. Sparrow's eyes hot upon him, but somehow braced for a half-expected rejection; and it was that, the dreadful idea of what a wild stupidity it would be to let those shutters fall, to give Jack Sparrow any cause to shut him out again, that brought the words to Jack's mouth.

"Christ Almighty," he said gruffly, "Have you two not opened your eyes for the past week? Enoch, you know there's not even the tiniest ghost of a chance that I'm about to head off into the interior with you. And you, Jack Sparrow, stop giving me that look; stop pretending that there's any way in hell that I'll leave this ship, right now."

Sparrow's gaze became perfectly incendiary, and though he managed to maintain some semblance of gravity, Jack could see the twitch at the corners of his hopelessly kissable mouth. Enoch merely raised an eyebrow. The men nearby had fallen oddly silent, though they affected pressing concentration elsewhere; Jack could almost hear their ears flapping in the breeze.

_An' the rest!_ howled the Imp shrilly. _Say! It! All!_

"Aye, you all heard me, so don't pretend you didn't," said Jack loudly, waving a hand round at his listeners. "I want to stay." And then, more quietly, to Sparrow: "I want to stay."

"With the _Black Pearl_?" said Jack Sparrow, with a tilt of his chin, and a look of challenge that said that Jack'd not yet delivered the words that he required to hear.

Oh, dammit, it had to be said; had to be said, here and loud, before half the company, and to hell with any man's expectations; they could measure nothing, against Jack's own expectations of the joy that could be his at Jack Sparrow's side. In Jack Sparrow's bed. In Jack Sparrow's arms.

"With _you_ , Jack," he said, clear enough that all could hear. "I'll stay with you, an you'll have me; an you'll be mine."

The world did not come crashing down; not one man looked at him with disdain; he did not stop being Jack Shaftoe. He grinned, broad and bright, at Sparrow; a grin that said, _come, tell me I've done this right and that's what you wanted from me_ and got a mocking look of deliberation in return.

"I s'pose I _might_ consider it," said Sparrow, and then grinned at him, and winked in a way that left no doubt as to what his true considerations might be.

* * *

To have Jack Shaftoe for his own! Aye, and to be Shaftoe's in turn: but that thought led inevitably to the sweet burning of memory, Jack Shaftoe claiming him not three hours gone, and Jack wanted to dance for joy, to grab Shaftoe in some wild reel and then drag him down below ...

But Enoch was here wanting an answer, looking no more than mildly regretful to lose Jack Shaftoe's shining company. More fool him. Jack thought he might never stop smiling.

"Very well, Jack," said Enoch to Shaftoe. "I confess I'd suspected that your, your _inclinations_ might lead you to choose another path: yet I'm sorry to leave you behind, even in such entertaining company."

Shaftoe blushed, but he was smiling, _leering_ at Jack, even while he made some sort of pretty apology to Enoch Root. Jack did not listen to this; he was too distracted by the notion of kissing Jack Shaftoe, here, in front of Enoch and the capstan crew and Bill Turner. In front, indeed, of the majority of the company; for, aside from the topmen who were aloft wrangling canvas, most of the men had finished their work and were gathered in the waist, awaiting their captain's pronouncements. To kiss Jack Shaftoe in front of 'em all: to hold him tight and feel his skin flush, feel him -- surely -- kiss Jack back, all --

"Can I come?" said a voice.

A voice Jack knew, and yet it was so wracked and wormed with grief that for a moment Jack, all hazy with lust and wickedness, did not recognise it. Then, from out of the huddle of men nearest the mast, emerged the tall, muddy figure of John Burton.

Pity leapt unplanned in Jack's heart, sharper than ever when he thought of what it must be to mourn a lover thus: what it would've been to lose Jack Shaftoe, back in Port Royal or here on the reef. He tamped down a little trill of perverse joy at the recall of Shaftoe saying that the thought of _him_ dead, of Jack Sparrow in poor Cooper's place, would matter more than anything. 'Twasn't decent, not now.

Poor bloody Burton. How was he ever going to get past this, seeing his and Cooper's mates every day, curling up in the same nook that he'd shared --

Thinking of it made Jack's sore throat sorer, and he held his tongue.

"Of course, John," Enoch was saying gravely, with that solemn smile of his. "You've an eye for detail, I've seen that: and I'd welcome any fellow-traveller as brave and strong as yourself."

"He'll make you a fine prentice, Enoch," Shaftoe chipped in, clapping Burton's shoulder. "Taught 'im all I know."

Enoch closed his eyes briefly. "Then I shall endeavour to uneducate him," he said. "John Burton, I'll be glad to have you with me."

"There's always a place for you on board, mate," said Jack, just in case Enoch had forgotten whose ship it was and whose crew he was recruiting. "But maybe 'tis best for you to take a different heading for a while, eh?"

Burton just nodded; he did not have it in him, yet, to smile, nor to speak much. Jack nodded his thanks to Enoch Root on Burton's behalf, and Cooper's too. It pleased him, to think that Burton would be distracted from his loss and grief, and safe in Root's odd company, and he was grateful to Root for taking that responsibility from his own shoulders.

There were a few murmurs from the men at the news of this latest loss, but they were generally approving. Only Martingale, standing a little apart, did not seem accepting of Burton's departure: indeed, there was something in the forlorn cant of his head that reminded Jack of the way Martingale'd eyed _Shaftoe_ , when first he'd come aboard. And Burton, after all, had played Shaftoe's part on that ill-fated shore party.

"Leave 'im be, mate," he murmured in Martingale's ear, making the lad jump, and savouring the sulky, sour look that Martingale turned on him. "No chance, feller-me-lad; Jack Shaftoe is mine," he thought, and despite everything could not help his smile sharpening.

They were making good headway now, and the reef with its nasty secrets had fallen away, a line of ruffled water behind them. Jack's shoulder ached at the thought of everything that had happened there: but then some _other_ muscle groups reminded him that the bad had been balanced -- nay, utterly obliterated -- by the good; by the sheer bliss of Jack Shaftoe fucking him.

Jack left Shaftoe talking intently to Enoch Root -- perhaps trying to inveigle more Physick from him, or something, mmm, slippery -- and stole away below. His cabin felt empty without Shaftoe's warm, overwhelming presence: but Shaftoe, after all, was _staying_ , staying with Jack, and Jack lost himself for a moment in a happy daze at the thought of all the nights they'd spend together in that narrow bed ...

... Enough of that. The _Black Pearl_ was creaking and sounding as she picked up speed, and his place as Captain was on deck. Though preferably not in these disreputable, and now thoroughly filthy breeches ... Jack stripped hastily and shimmied into clean clothes, sending up a silent paean of thanks to Joe Henry for his laundering skills: a slender glass vial glinted at him from the shelf above the bed, and he pocketed it. Just in case. Something else, something bundled up in cloth like a voudon charm, caught his eye, and by the time he realised what it was it was already in his hand.

Oh Christ, Jack Shaftoe. Jack had to go and tell him ... tell him ...

He hurried topside. The breeze was stiffening, carrying the scent of distant jungles all virgin and untravelled by any Alchemist. (A cure, eh? Jack grinned at the thought: life seemed ever so much more _intriguing_ , lately.) The sun was sinking behind the island, though the foretop was still gilded with sunlight. To the north, against the pale horizon, flickered a creamy speck of sail-cloth.

Jack Shaftoe was at the bow, steadying himself against the rail and pressing Jack's glass ( _wondered_ where that'd gone) to his eye. Jack came up behind, unhurried, failing (though admittedly not trying very hard) to suppress a twitchy smirk at the sight of Shaftoe's muscled backside tensing as he balanced himself against the ship's pitching.

"Afternoon; or is it evening?" Jack murmured into Shaftoe's ear, aware from Shaftoe's warm look that his approach had not been entirely stealthy.

"I'd say it's nearly night ... Captain," said Jack Shaftoe slyly; and there was something about the way that last word sounded in his mouth that sent a delicious shivering all the way down Jack's spine. Let alone the shiver that came from the twin thoughts of _night_ and _Jack Shaftoe_.

"So, Mr Shaftoe ..." said Jack, pressing up close, "I was just thinking of what a sad, sad thing it would've been, if you'd decided to accomp'ny Enoch Root, and left me with no more than a tiny token remembrance of you."

"You didn't think for a moment that I'd go, you bloody liar," said Jack Shaftoe. "You just wanted me to say it out loud."

"Why, Jack! Are you calling me manipulative?"

"No, no, not at all; I think 'foully cunning' will suffice. Or would 'fiendishly' be better?" mused Shaftoe, affecting deep thought.

"Stop insulting me, I'm trying to work my way round to discussing something rather horridly interesting, and you're steering me off track with all your argufying."

"Horridly interesting?"

"Absolutely. What I was _trying_ to say, if you'd let me get on with it, was that it'd be the most terrific shame if I were to be left all alone with nothing but _this_ to 'member you by." And Jack pulled out the little fold of cambric, lace-edged and stained with dirt and some dark, rusty mark. Shaftoe stared for a second, and then made a strange glottal sound in his throat.

"You've got my _finger_ in your _pocket_?" managed Shaftoe after some moments of opening and closing his mouth, and then some more moments of simply closing it, swallowing hard as though his stomach were threatening to eject its contents. "That's ... that's ..."

Jack considered, and discarded, the possibility of inviting Jack Shaftoe to give some other parts of himself into Jack's keeping. His tongue, perhaps. His ...

Jack cleared his throat.

"Horridly interesting, as I b'lieve I told you. I'm thinking I might boil the pieces down; I should like the bones, if you've no further use for 'em."

"Boil 'em?" exclaimed Shaftoe. "No, no: there's a Solution, Enoch showed me; eats through flesh like ..."

Jack saw Shaftoe's hand, his maimed left hand, clench against his side, and wriggled his own fingers sympathetically.

"Seems quite wonderf'ly _piratical_ , to me," he explained. "I should like to wear 'em."

"Wear 'em," repeated Jack Shaftoe, all wary -- and yet, as Jack'd hoped, if not suspected, he seemed strangely ... warmed, by the idea. He said it again, with an intrigued lift of one black eyebrow, and then burst out laughing.

"I'm impressed by your capacity to surprise," he told Jack; "Revolted, and yet impressed. Jesus, I can't believe you kept 'em!"

"Still part of you, ain't they?" muttered Jack, poking at the small, shrivelled things with one long finger, and then looking up at Shaftoe from under his eyelashes, with a wicked grin, as he pocketed them again. "Told you, I want every part of you, Jack Shaftoe; an' I don't say it lightly."

Shaftoe turned t'ward him, just a little; fitted his long body against Jack's, like the missing piece of some puzzle, in a way that made Jack clench his teeth and fists and arse against a flooding rush of sense-memory. "Jack," they both said, together, and Shaftoe's grin was all white teeth in the gathering dusk.

"Want to look at our rabbit?" Shaftoe said, passing Jack his glass.

"'D'ruther look at any number of things," said Jack, doing so in a long sweeping gaze up and down Jack Shaftoe's body, "but I suppose I should take a gander." He brought the glass to his eye, and squirmed in front of Shaftoe, who let him pass, but gave him the very minimum amount of room to do so, and promptly closed off any chance of retreat by pressing up against Jack from behind. Heat through layers of clothing; firm press of muscle, and oh yes, the solidity of Jack Shaftoe's cock, all interested and certain against the cleft of Jack's arse.

"Mmm. Definitely Spanish," said Jack, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, feeling his hips tilt, hearing the gasping chuff of Shaftoe's laughter pushing out like a sound forced from some wicked angel's throat. Shaftoe leant his chin carefully upon Jack's shoulder; wound his arms about Jack's waist, all proprietary. All unabashed.

"How long, d'you think," murmured Jack Shaftoe, "till you've had your fill of watching that pretty boat scurrying along in the gloaming? Can't be long, surely… and ... why, what then, Jack? Whatever shall we do with ourselves then?"

"D'you want me to tell you?" muttered Jack in return, turning from the glass; turning his face t'wards the warmth of Shaftoe's skin and breath and incandescent self, as close as he could be without touching, so close he phant'sied the tiny layer of charged air between them carried the pulse of Shaftoe's blood.

"Tell me," said Jack Shaftoe, and he blinked; slow, lazy, lustful.

"Very well; first I'm going to look my fill, Mr Shaftoe, and… and then I'm going to take you below, to my -- nay, _our_ \-- cabin, an' bolt the door so we shan't be disturbed. And then, once we're all pressed up close in my bed, our bed, I'm going to ... to ..."

"Aye, get on with it," murmured Shaftoe, wildly excited if the way he was pressing against Jack was anything to go by.

"I'm going to read to you, Jack Shaftoe," confided Jack.

" _Read_ to me?" demanded Shaftoe, with an indignant squirm.

"Oh, aye," said Jack; and he closed that final skerrick of space between them, and his lips touched teasing on Jack Shaftoe's warm golden cheek as he whispered, "I'll lay there's all manner of Experiments to be constructed from de Braxas' books."

Shaftoe beamed at him, all fierce and joyous, and tightened his hands on Jack's waist; close against Jack's ear he whispered, "An' what're we looking to prove, eh?"

"Ah, but we already _have_ proved a Theory," said Jack, pressing himself back against the rail for the blissful puissance of feeling Shaftoe follow.

"Aye?" said Shaftoe. "And what's that, Jack? That I want you, and you want --"

"Ssssh," said Jack Sparrow, laying his finger on Shaftoe's hot mouth. "Why, Mr Shaftoe, that I ..."

"That you ...?" Shaftoe whispered, all focussed and intent.

Jack took a moment to gloat. The night air was caressingly cool: the waning moon curved above the shimmering eastern ocean: Jack Shaftoe was touching him in a myriad different places on his skin and through his clothes. Certain bliss.

"Inconclusive," he brightly. "Pray tell Bootstrap that he has the helm, eh? He can send for me when we're a mile from the prize. No sooner."

"You'll be busy, then?" said Shaftoe, with a devilish look.

"I'm _injured_ , Jack: I ache," said Jack Sparrow. "Perhaps we might, the two of us, find some cure, eh?"

And took Jack Shaftoe's smile below with him, for a start.

-the end-  


* * *

  
We collaborated on this final chapter, since neither of us are really ready to let go ...

Thank you all for your enjoyment, your comments, your appreciation! This has been ever so much fun to write, and we'll miss it immensely!   



End file.
